


The Rose In The Snow

by WriterWithNoName1



Category: The Eagle of the Ninth - Rosemary Sutcliff, The Eagle | The Eagle of the Ninth (2011), The Eagle | The Eagle of the Ninth - All Media Types
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon Era, Celts, Cultural Differences, Deception, Esca is a bratty princeling, Falling In Love, Gen, Hair-pulling, Humor, Intercrural Sex, Loneliness, M/M, Marcus king of chickens, On Hiatus, Roman Britain, Romance, Slow Burn, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-17
Updated: 2017-11-05
Packaged: 2018-12-30 21:50:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 22,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12117933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WriterWithNoName1/pseuds/WriterWithNoName1
Summary: Marcus is chosen for an undercover mission for Rome, to spy upon the Britons to discover the truth of a suspected uprising. He goes along with the plan, hoping to redeem his family name.But that is easier said than done.





	1. Tooth's Edge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys, I'm afraid this is now on hiatus due to work commitments and bereavement. I will get back to it eventually, but not before my Christmas break.
> 
> Thank you all for your patience.

Marcus stood with his cloak clenched tightly in his fist, trying to brace against the biting cold of the wind; staring with his mouth slightly agape at the place he was to call home for the next few months.

His teeth chattered, but like a good Roman he did everything he could to hide his discomfort. At least it wasn’t raining, but he didn’t like the look of a few dark clouds that were clustering on the horizon.

The light was going, as evening was approaching with cruel speed.

Still, Marcus had _requested_ a post in Britannia; and the roman knew he was not in a position to complain. Not with a name like Flavius Aquila clinging to him like black tar and refusing to budge any time soon.

The tiny dwelling seemed to be leaning to one side; the foundation either failing or because it was built facing down hill rather than on the hill’s peak. Maybe the man who had built it had been drunk at the time.

It had been crafted in the style of the British roundhouse’s that littered the rolling country side, with a thatched roof, mud walls, and no door to speak off save for a torn piece of mouldy cow skin.

Just a few paces away from the house sat a stone well that was crumbling inward on itself, a block for cutting wood, and a tiny wooden shed that may have been the privy.

Marcus wrinkled his nose. He was not looking forward to making _that_ trip late at night when nature called.

Cradoc, his faithful British guide, had escorted him from the fort. He had been in a queer sort of humour that day, telling Marcus the place they were headed too was fondly called ‘Tooth’s Edge’.

After having done his duty, Cradoc said a quick goodbye (with a sympathetic look given free of charge) before mounting his horse and racing back down the dusty slope from whence they had come; as swift as a centaur, at one with his steed.

He hadn’t even looked back. No man could blame him, especially not Marcus. He almost wished he could follow him back to civilisation. 

He would be back in a week or so to make sure the Roman was still alive.

Marcus was left standing dumbly in his wake.

If he was to make himself up to be a Briton, he needed to improve his riding. His own mare tossed her head in unease, unsettled by Cradoc’s speedy retreat.

Alone, and feeling the worse for it, Marcus looked his dwelling up and down with a stone dropping to the pit of his belly.

‘Modest’ was how it was described by his commander, words like ‘simple’ were also tossed around.

“You will have everything that you require-” He had said, his chest plate glinting audaciously. “-but of course for this mission, being discreet is of the upmost importance over _comfort_ , centurion.”

Of course.

A good roman put the needs of Rome first, and his own last.

Marcus sighed, and tied up his horse before stepping over the threshold.

For his father, he would do this. For his family name, he would do this.

The roman was relieved to be out of the wind, but was immediately accosted by some chickens who had already claimed this place as their own.

Marcus hissed as his ankles were pecked at, and he tried to remember how the slaves on his mother’s farm had dealt with unruly poultry.

“Shoo! Shoo!” he barked, hopping around the squawking hens like a fool, almost tripping over his booted feet. He was grateful not to be wearing his usual sandals in such weather, but still, his toes could barely even wriggle in the foot wear he was given.

And his shirt was itchy.

Made from no doubt the cheapest wool Rome could offer. Only the best for such a willing spy risking his life to intercept a possible uprising.

Only a possible one; but the possibility was growing. Simple distrust was accompanied by bad harvests and a feeling of tensions visibly intensifying; like a harp string drawn too tightly.

At least Marcus looked like a simple peasant, even if it meant living and feeling like one. It was all going according to plan.

He found a suitable corner to stash his belongings, and unrolled his bedding which looked insubstantial on the cold, hard ground. Why hadn’t he thought to bring some furs? That’s what the Britons did to chase away the chilly nights.

The inside of his shack was as plain as the outside, with nothing more than the floor, the ceiling, a fire pit and a wooden chair that was currently being used by the biggest hen as a perch.

On the furthest wall hung a shield and a sword, embossed with symbol of his adopted tribe for all to see. It was bright red and oval shaped, decorated with black swirls and a gold centre.

Marcus felt a twinge of guilt. These weapons had once belonged to a real warrior, and now were being used in an elaborate scheme against the people who had made it.

The air felt colder.

Marcus had forgotten just how bracing Britannia in the midst of autumn could be. Of course, he had no luck to be given such a mission in the summer months when he might actually enjoy himself.

Whilst Marcus got himself settled, he thought he may as well start practising his introductions, after all, the whole purpose of this posting was to mingle with the locals and gather information.

“ _Hello, I am Marcus son of Allena of the Selgovae-”_ The language was rough in Marcus’ mouth, but he continued. _“I am a bastard. Son of a Roman father-”_

This part of the deception didn’t sit well with Marcus. It was almost as if someone high up n the chain of command decided he hadn’t been shamed enough and was punishing him further. What a fine joke.

_“I have no family left alive.”_

In fairness, these were not all lies, just modified truths to suit his purposes. Everyone who had loved him was indeed dead and buried, apart from his foolish aunt and her weasel of a husband. His letters to her had become more and more infrequent, until they had stopped completely.

Just as well, he was no longer a fresh faced recruit who still felt the claws of homesickness. Besides, he doubted she missed him. No one ever missed Marcus.

His propensity for model behaviour and keeping his head down was most likely what had attracted the attention of his superiors. His almost servile desire to please had gotten him into this mess, maybe it would help him succeed now.

 _“I am a…”_ a liar, a roman, a man with a disgraced name, I want to go home.

But where was home? A bed at the fort? His aunt’s villa? His long lost family farm in Clusium?

He had no roots, he tumbled from place to place without ever being anywhere; making no impression that he ever existed.

Marcus’ shoulder’s slumped, sitting down on his bed and letting his back rest against the wall. He watched idly as the chickens cleaned the floor of all seeds and crumbs, scratching sometimes at the dirt.

His stomach growled, and the roman reached into his pack to see what food he could eat without having to cook; he’d suddenly lost all his energy to light the fire pit.

Marcus retrieved some olives and munched away, eyes glancing over, well, everything really. There wasn’t that much to look at.

Outside, the wind howled.

The big hen scurried over and eyed the treats in Marcus’ large paw with her beady black eyes. Surprised, he offered one out to her.  

She gobbled it, clucking in approval.

“Well, at least I’ve made some progress.” He said aloud to no one in particular. He wishes someone, anyone else had been forced to come with him; just so there could be another body here, to keep him company.

He wanted to sleep, feeling frazzled and over tired.

Marcus lay down and hid himself from the world, using his blanket to cover his head.

He fell into slumber with the soft sounds of the chickens and the night all around him.

\----

Marcus was introduced to the rooster the next morning at dawn.

He groaned, throwing his hands over his head. Since when had the fort brought in a rooster?

Then he remembered.

Marcus sat up, blinking away the sleep from his eyes and shivering with the morning cold. His feet had gone all but numb, but his back was surprisingly warm.

He soon discovered this was because the hens had sat on him during the night and were now not impressed at being disturbed, flapping their wings to maintain balance. One gave him a scolding squawk right into his ear for good measure.

The hut was still dark, the sun not rising yet for a few hours still. Marcus pondered with the idea of getting back to sleep, but he knew it would be futile.

With his left hand, he unconsciously reached up and plucked a few hairs from behind his ear in irritation; feeling better for the sharp, ripping pain. He was alive, still.

He summoned the energy to rise and light the fire, struggling with the flit a few times before it would take. Smoke began to fill the round house, and the heat and light were very much welcome.

Marcus quickly trotted outside to fetch water, grunting as he hoisted the bucket upwards from the depths of the well.

His mare nickered at him in greeting, and Marcus realised in his shame he’d forgotten to unsaddle her. With an apology, he removed her tack and turned her loose so she may graze freely and left her with some water of her own to drink; pouring it into a stone trough shadowed by a stick of a tree.

The roman had no horse feed apart from a single bag of oats, and was beginning to see just how unprepared he was. It was unlike Marcus to be so unorganised; he would have to go to the market and purchase some essential items.

He had been given a small sum of money to tide him over till Cradoc returned in ten days’ time, but surely he wouldn’t spend it all before then. It was always best to be frugal.

He would hunt, set up some snares; that would supplement his meals. And there would hopefully be some eggs to collect soon. 

He was no kind of cook, but Marcus would just have to learn.

After washing his hands, face and arms in the biting morning air he eventually retreated inside to dry off and dress himself. He stopped himself from shaving, for Britons usually wore their beards and hair long.

The roman bit his lip, rubbing worriedly at his bare chin. He was not a man that could grow a substantial beard, and his hair never grew very long.

He never allowed it to.

Marcus ate little, not really feeling hungry so early in the morning. He nibbled at some bread, but got no joy from it; not even bothering to add any of the oil he’d brought with him. Not much of a _jentaculum_.

The roman let the chickens polish off what was left of his ‘meal’ before dousing the fire and grabbing his cloak before stepping back outside.

By the time he made it to the market on foot there would at least be a bit more sunlight, and hopefully the temperature would rise.

Marcus hoped the chickens wouldn’t leave droppings in his bed while he was gone.

The walk was slow and not very pleasant, having to descend a hill path which was poorly maintained; rocky and steep. It made Marcus’ knees and feet hurt as he climbed downwards.

From there, he tried to remember which way he needed to go. There were no signs and no distinguishing markers that the Roman could see.

Fortunately, after some wandering, Marcus come upon a boy-herd and his sheep who was kind enough to direct him with a pointed finger and a grunt towards the place that market was held.

Marcus thanked him, and carried on. 

He heard the hustle and bustle before the stalls came into view. The cries of animals intermingled with the chatter of haggling traders and customers into a sort of dull roar, and Marcus unsteadily weaved his way through bodies dressed in colourful cloth.

The roman spotted a man flogging skins, and decided this would be a fine enough place to start. Clearing his throat and acting as casually as he could, Marcus walked over; and nearly got bitten by an irate hound for stepping on its tail.

He hadn’t seen the animal sleeping under the table until it had growled and leaped at Marcus’ private parts; which thankfully were saved by the Roman’s quick reflexes.

“Settle down, Cahal!” The man who owned the stall, a stout fellow with a red beard, struck the dog squarely on the head. The beast whimpered and retreated back from whence it came. The trader smiled up at Marcus, suddenly friendly and accommodating. “Can I help you, young sir?”

Dusting himself off, Marcus nodded. “Yes, I require some furs.”

“Well! You’re in the right place then-” the man waved a hand over his various wares with practised showmanship. “Anything in particular? I have a lovely wolf skin here..." He held up the pelt to Marcus and ran his hand through the course grey fur. “Wonderful quality, young sir!”

“Yes, that’ll do.” Marcus said, reaching for his purse. “How much then, sir?”

The trader’s eyes sparkled. “Two denarii, if you please.”

“I... pardon?” Marcus stuttered.

“Two denarii.” The trader repeated.

“…for one wolf skin?” the roman asked, unsure if he’d heard correctly.

“Of course sir! I can’t sell my wares too cheaply! Otherwise I’ll be losing money!”

Marcus looked down at the coins in his hand, if he paid this man what he wanted then he’d already have lost nearly half of what money he’d been given. He suspected this trader was conning him, but he need the fur and didn’t want to get off on the wrong foot with the local people.

“Don’t pay him.”

Marcus turned his head.

A small, wiry young man with wild shocks of wheaten hair was standing behind him. His clothes were of a finer kind than Marcus had seen the people around him wearing, with the occasional glint of jewels catching the light as the stranger shifted his weight.

His cloak was bright purple, with a beautifully made bronze clasp. Obviously this was a nobleman of some fashion. 

He was clean shaven as Marcus was, but his hair clustered like rings of gold against the lower nape of his neck. A single, tight braid rested on one shoulder. 

With confidence, the young man stepped forward. “Business as usual, Drem?” He asked, unimpressed. “Two denarii for one ratty old wolf skin? That’s outrageous, even for you.”

The trader was visibly insulted. “Not so! I was just conducting a fair trade, prices change!” He gestured to Marcus. “This young man is _new_ here, I was just educating him-”

Was it that obvious? The roman coloured and shrank into himself. What good was he as a spy if he was already so conspicuous?

“Fleecing him, more like!” The young man cut the trader off sharply with pure unmatched authority. His slender hand drifted downwards to his dagger held at his belt.

Marcus’ throat dried up.

“Didn’t you learn anything the last time I caught you at it? Maybe you need another lesson…”

The trader went white, and shook his head. “N-Not at all my lord! In fact-” He bundled a few skins into Marcus’ hands. “Here! Take these! A gift from myself to you young sir! Welcome to our lands!”

The stranger smiled, victorious, he looked practically vulpine. “Much better.”

In something of a daze, Marcus muttered a thank you and stumbled away with his furs; unsure what had just happened.

He didn't get far before he felt a hand grab his arm.

“- _Hey!”_

Marcus’ step faltered, and he looked down at the golden haired stranger, who was scowling at him.

His gaze could penetrate stone.

“Did you not learn any manners where you come from?” He demanded.

“What?”

“Walking off after someone has done you a _favour_ without saying thank you?” The man said distastefully. “Especially when you’re so clearly ignorant of our ways…” Blue eyes drifted up and down Marcus’ clothes; making a judgement. “What tribe do you hail from?”

“Selgovae.” Marcus answered, without missing a beat, though lying to an actual person made him feel like an eel.

“Really? You’re far from home, aren’t you?” The man circled Marcus, as if look for a weak spot.

The roman found himself bristling, but he pushed it away; this was a delicate and important mission, he needed to remain calm and not reveal himself. “Thank you for coming to my aid.” He replied, curtly, with a nod of his head. “Now, if you’ll excuse me-”

The stranger was in front of him now, blocking his path. Marcus blinked, he was fast on his feet this one.

The man's narrow features were twisted into a smirk. “Where are you headed?”

“Home.” The roman said dryly.

The man leaned in closer. “Where’s home? I’ve always wanted to know where giants live.”

Marcus’ eyes widened, and then his jaw set angrily; he’d had enough of this arrogant, posturing little weed and his barbed comments. He'd always had no patience for self important aristocrats, no matter where they came from. 

It seemed Romans and Britons had something in common after all.

“I appreciate your help.” Marcus gritted. “But I need to be going. So, kindly _move_.” Using as much force as he needed, the roman pushed the stranger out of his way and continued walking.

He heard an indignant series of noises from behind him, and Marcus walked faster, clutching his furs tightly.

Mithras give him strength, this was going to be a very long few months indeed.


	2. Lavender

Esca Mac Cunoval was left in the middle of the market.

His expression shifting in animated disbelief and outright fury.

He was outraged, he was incensed, and just a tiny bit aroused.

Esca hated, hated so much that the strange, tall man who had just publicly rebuffed him made him feel these things. And yet, he wanted to chase the stranger down like a wolf and pin him to the ground-

The prince coughed and straightened his cloak; as though he had hardly noticed the slight to his honour. It was crucial he maintain dignity at all times in the face of his people.

After all, he was not some slender hipped youth who didn’t know his own dick from an adder.

He wasn’t going to get hot and bothered over an impudent stranger.

No matter how handsome and well-built he was.

Holding his head aloft, Esca strode with powerful steps out of the marketplace; the crowd parting for him, and he summoned his slave who was minding his horse. With a rough order and a slap across the ear, the slave was dispatched from his duty for now and the prince rode hard in the direction of home at a full gallop.

The wind was harsh and bracing, and it was just what Esca needed.

All the same, his mind drifted back to the strength he had felt when the man had shoved him away. It was tightly coiled, controlled, with a soldier’s discipline; so he must be a warrior.

Esca cried, smacking his horse on the rear; he had felt the impression of a large pectoral muscle against his shoulder when the man’s body had connected with his for that brief moment.

He cursed and urged his horse faster still.

There was just something, something Esca could not comprehend about the man. He was dressed like a common tramp, with ill-fitting and worn clothing, but held himself with a certain air that hinted at a commander’s status.

But if so, why would he not have an underling to do his errands for him? Even a poorer man in Briton could afford at least one slave.

The only reason for Esca’s presence at the market was because the lively place lifted his spirits; and it was nice to make conmen like Drem wet themselves in fright. 

The prince goaded his horse into jumping a wall, and didn’t think about how the man would look with long, flowing curls; why he kept it cropped so short, Esca couldn’t understand.

Along with much more.

When he finally arrived home, his horse was frothing and panting from the strain. Esca knew his father wouldn’t be pleased, this horse was a gift for his last birthday; the best stallion in their royal stables. There was a rumour that he was a descendent of Cartimandua’s war steed, but that was probably just gossip.

He handed his horse away and went to his father’s round house immediately.

Inside, in the comforting smoky gloom, Esca saw his mother was kneeling by the fire with his sister; braiding their hair and deep in conversation. A serving girl was weaving in the shadows, and another was washing some things nearby; heads bowed, silent in their work.

His father had yet to arrive, it seemed.

“Hello, my wolf cub-” Said Aphria, smiling like honey and all things warm and inviting. “Was it a good day at the market?”

Esca blushed, and his sister sniggered. It seemed his mother would never stop calling him by that name; no matter how old he got. He just hoped she didn’t see fit to say it outside in front of his friends. He’d never hear the end of it.

“Yes, busy as always.” Esca looked around for his brother, and listened for a bright, easy laugh. The prince heard nothing and could see that his sibling was missing from their house. “Where is Eoghann?”

“Fishing, _stupid_.” Erie jeered. “Or had you forgotten?”

Esca narrowed his eyes. “Mother.” He said, waving a hand in his awful sister’s direction. “There seems to be a piglet sitting by the fire.”

His sister turned bright red, and her face which was plump with puppy fat and covered in freckles creased grotesquely as if she was about to implode. Good.

Esca was so busy laughing at her that he didn’t notice that his father had arrived.

After he recovered from the blow to his head, he sat somewhat unsteadily by his mother at the fire; falling backwards onto their floor furs. His sister poked her tongue out at him, Esca decided to ignore her.

“Such childish behaviour insults me, Esca, and it shames this house.” Cunoval said with cold, pointed sternness. “Your sister is still not fourteen and is a girl, so I do not expect as much from her-”

Erie stared into the flames, fiddling with the edges of her shawl. Only the crackling of the wood could be heard.

“But you, I thought you had grown out of such things. Perhaps I let you be painted like a warrior a few seasons too early.”

Esca’s heart leaped into his throat. “No! Father, I am sorry- I will behave in a more worthy manner befitting our name.”

His father sat down. “I’m glad to hear it”

 Esca bit his lip. “It’s just- there was a man in the market today…”

Cunoval raised a white eyebrow. “There are usually many men in the market, Esca.”

Esca growled in frustration under his breath. “Yes, but there was this _one_. He utterly disrespected me, by the gods I don’t even think he recognised me as a prince!”

Cunoval took a bowl of stew from his wife and sipped it thoughtfully. “Was he one of our spears? Have you offended anyone with your bad habits of late?”

Erie giggled, but fell silent when Esca turned on her with a burning gaze. Their mother quietly shhed her.

“No father, he claimed to be one of the Selgovae.”

Cunoval raised his head, mild interest showing in his wrinkled brow. “Oh?”

Esca snorted. “I cannot say I wish to extend friendship to them if they are all as rude as he was.”

“What was his offense?”

The prince sat up straight. “He didn’t pay me proper tribute! Even if I am not _his_ prince he still needs to respect me in my own land!”

There is something about the idea of belonging to the tall, muscled stranger that made Esca’s blood rush with something primal and wanting. But he stamped it silent in his own mind.

Cunoval crossed his arms. “Have I died already, Esca?” he asked levelly.

Esca fumbled with his words, regretting his misstep. “No, father, I meant _our_ lands.”

The king nodded, taking another sip from his soup. He did not speak for a little while, and Esca was as tense as a lamb in a lion’s den.

“…was he alone?”

“I doubt he has anything more than the clothes he was wearing.” Esca replied, thinking to himself ‘ _And you should have seen how he was dressed.’_

His mother, who had been tending to the stew, finally spoke. “Perhaps he feels overwhelmed and lost, if he is new here. You should have welcomed him as a fellow shield brother, not been offended when he didn’t lower his head to suit your tastes-“

Esca was startled. “But mother-”

“Do not interrupt me. I’m sure he didn’t mean to slight you, a misunderstanding, I’m sure. How could he know better, if he didn’t know who you were?”  She was so rational, his mother, so calm and sensible that Esca wondered if he truly had been born from her; his rash temper and tendency towards thorn sharp words was well known.

And feared by those who were wise, he might add.

Ashamed, Esca gazed downwards into his bowl; his breakfast no doubt going cold now. His father was almost constantly disappointed in something he did, but Esca could not bear to upset his mother in anyway.

“I’m sorry, Ma.” He muttered.

Aphria tutted and reached out to touch her son’s cheek. “It is well. Just please promise me you will find this man and make peace with him.”

Esca thought she might say that. His pride was stung, and he thought about refusing but relented and kissed the inside of his mother’s wrist in respect.

“I promise.”

He was not looking forward too it. Esca hated humbling himself in anyway, even to friends. But perhaps there was a light side to this; maybe he would stumble upon the selgovae man bathing.

Esca was lost for a moment in his imaginings; taught, sculpted back muscles dripping with river water, a pair of thighs as thick as mature oak trees…

He may have been lost in his mind forever if his sister had not flicked him on the nose.

“You pig faced little-“

“Mother! Esca called me a pig! _Again!”_

Cunoval was swift with his discipline. A strike for each of them.

Esca decided now was a better time than any to seek out the selgovae and make amends with him.

But he had the dilemma of simply finding the man, having no clue where he was living; if indeed he did live close by.

When he’d said ‘home’ that could be anywhere within ten miles.

He took a fresh gelding and left the settlement of his ancestors.

Fortune blessed Esca that day, for he stumbled upon the boy-herd Domhnall slacking off as usual; the boy might not be of much use but he had eyes like a fox and was good at given directions.

After a few apples changed hands, the boy told Esca the man had come from up the western hill with the spindly aspens.

Esca frowned. Tooth’s Edge? What kind of man wished to live there?

Grumbling, he slowly brought his gelding up the slope.

At the peak, he had a look all about him. It was worse than he thought.

The house was at least a decade old, needing several immediate repairs and the fire had been allowed to burn out.

There was a well, but it would not last the next stormy season judging by its condition, and Esca doubted if the water would be very good to drink. The stream would be cleaner.

The only signs of life were a flock of chickens, who strutted and pecked as of Esca was nothing and no one of interest.

The prince dismounted and peered inside the round house; the selgovae was not there.

A whinny alerted him to the presence of a stocky, but pretty black mare standing by a water trough; flicking her tail at the flies.

Ecsa called to her, and she snorted in reply.

“Where is your master?” he asked, although it was absurd to expect an answer.

“...behind you.”

Esca’s spun around so quickly he nearly lost balance.

As it was, he nearly knocked his forehead against a pile of chopped logs the man was carrying.

Esca was ruffled. “I heard you coming.” He declared. “I was just letting you believe you could sneak up on me. Your feet shake the earth when you move.”

The selgovae dumped his logs by a chopping block and crossed his arms. He appeared both tired and annoyed, with sweat dampening his brow.

Esca was displeased to see he was even more striking when so close.

He was made of sharp, regular lines. His chest was like a barrel, and his hands and were large and strong with black, ragged nails.

Did the Selgovae tribe not tend to their hands as the Brigantes did? Esca was ignorant of their customs but surely they believed in personal hygiene.

In fact, the man looked as if he’d hadn’t slept in a week, and the set of his shoulders was impressive but weary. He was sun dark in complexion, but at the same time somewhat pallid in the face.

The stranger shifted. “…are we just going to stare at each other, or did you want something in particular?” His accent was odd, but Esca put it down to regional differences.

“No, I mean yes-” Esca began. “I sought you out because I wanted to… apologise for my conduct in the market this morning.”

The selgovae was genuinely surprised, long eye lashes fluttering over his green irises as he blinked.

Oh no, this was not going to do at all.

“I… accept your apology.” The selgovae said, a little _hesitant_ , which made Esca tingle. Was this a grown man he was speaking too? Or a shy woodland creature? “I was a little brusque myself. Forgive me, I was recovering from my journey here.”

“Oh? And why are you here exactly?” It was difficult to frame his question innocently and not like an interrogation.

The man shrugged. “I left my mother’s tribe some time ago. I’ve been looking for a place to settle for a while, it seems peaceful enough here.” He looked somewhat uncertain. “Apart from the Romans. Obviously.”

“Obviously.” Esca repeated with a smile. “Let me introduce myself properly.” He drew himself up to his full height. “I am Esca, son of Conuval and heir to the Brigantes.” The prince offered out his ring hand, expecting a proper greeting now this was all settled.

The selgovae nodded, and _shook_ Esca’s hand as if that was the correct thing to do.

Esca’s eyes bulged at the power of his grip.

“Marcus.” Said the man. “Son of Allenna.”

_Marcus?_

“That’s a Roman name.” Esca accused.

Marcus looked somewhat sheepish. “Yes… I was named for my father. He died when I was a child, but I hardly knew him.”

Esca was suddenly filled with understanding, and almost felt sorry for him. “Ah, a bastard then. There seem to be more and more of you every year, Romans breed like rabbits do they not?”

He’d meant it in playful humour, but Marcus was not laughing.

With a sour, thin lipped look, he placed a log on the cutting block. “Yes. Now, I have to cut wood for the fire. Thanks for the apology.”

Esca, slightly furious at the second dismissal, didn’t budge. “Can’t you take a joke, Selgovae?”

“I can take jokes just fine.” Marcus brought down the axe sharply on the wood, splintering it.  He was ignoring Esca.

That made the prince angry.

“It’s not my fault you’re the spawn of some dead roman!” He snapped. “And you should be glad! They’ve brought nothing good to these lands-”

“Oh? So you never used the roads then? Or benefited from their justice?”

Esca fumed. “We don’t need their precious straight roads and we can govern ourselves! If you had any pride in your mother’s lineage you would denounce any connection with them.”

Marcus’ grip on the axe handle tightened. “What I do and don’t do, is not the business of you, my _lord_.”

The last words were spoken in complete mockery, and the prince’s neck veins began to bulge out in rage. He lowered his hand to his sword, a warning if there ever was one.

Marcus paid him no heed, and carried on chopping. “That might work with that fur trader, but it doesn’t scare me.”

“These lands will be mine someday.” Esca hissed, quietly. “But until then, I could always persuade my father to evict you, Roman-son.”

The taller man paused in his work, his hand rising up as if to scratch behind his ear; but instead his fingers jerked as if he was plucking something unsavoury out of his hair. There was a minuscule twitch of pain in his eyes.

“If you have the lice-” Esca sneered. “I suggest washing your hair with lavender.”

“Get gone, and leave me be!” Marcus bellowed, finally losing control of his temper before storming away.

Ecsa's fingers shifted on the hilt of his sword, but he did not draw it. 

The chickens squawked, startled, as Marcus passed them in a huff.

The Prince found his victory tasted as good as vinegar, and he was left cold and unsatisfied. He watched Marcus disappear before turning away himself; smouldering like a volcano. 

So be it. He had done what his mother had asked; she needn't know what had happened after Esca had apologised. 

Hopefully the winter would drive Marcus out of Tooth's Edge and back to where he had come from. Or he’d freeze to death.

Either would suit Esca just fine.


	3. Squall

Marcus’ life was blissfully uneventful, albeit chilly, for the next three days.

He tried his best to mingle with the local people, appearing friendly without seeming to be fishing for information.

After all these years, the Roman finally had to master the skill of pleasant conversation.

Apart from that spoiled little princeling, the Brigantes and the neighbouring tribesman seemed welcoming enough; if somewhat reserved, as if they could smell something off about Marcus’ sudden appearance and his sorry tale of bastardhood.  

And Marcus had not heard so much of a whisper of any sort of attack on the Romans

He was awoken one night by a splash of frigid water to his face. With a gasp, he sat up right and saluted; beating his fist to his chest.

“Hail commander! I am awake! What are your orders?”

But there was no Roman officer standing over him, nothing but the pitch blackness of the round house greeted Marcus’ eyes; and the rain roared outside, as if mocking him.

He sighed, and felt foolish; it must have been a dream.

He shivered, and rubbed the back of his neck.

It was soaking.

Marcus blinked, and rubbed his fingers together. How could he have sweated so much when his body shivered with cold?

It was then he realised that a column of moonlight was shining through the roof; or rather, it was shining through the brand new _hole_ in the roof.

Marcus’ eyes drifted upwards to see that part of the thatched roofing had collapsed, unable to take the weight of the heavens which were pouring down; debris was scattered all over the dirt floor.

The Roman cursed under his breath and rubbed his face in exhaustion. 

He did not know who had offended Juno to such a degree, but she was now trying to drown the world; of all the ways Marcus thought he would die, he didn’t think this would be it.

No doubt there was some rot in the straws of the thatch, or damage done by rodents; but whatever the cause was, it needed to be dealt with. Marcus couldn’t live with a roof that didn’t at least keep him dry.

The Roman stiffly rose and pulled his now damp wolf skin away from the puddle forming on the floor, half stumbling from the shock of being awoken so abruptly.

The chickens were still snoozing, and thankfully the rooster was too; maybe Marcus would be lucky and he would forget to do his morning call.

Alas, luck was not Marcus’ friend.

There was nothing the Roman could do about the hole at this hour, not while it was dark and storming; he’d have to collect some hay and mud (which there should be plenty of thanks to the rain) when the light arrived.

Miserable, Marcus didn’t even bother trying to dry out his wolf skin and just settled on the hard ground with his blanket.

Quietly, in a mere whisper, Marcus began to pray. “I wear the Armor of Mithras and the Light. I am shielded from all that is harmful…”

A flash of lightning illuminated the house, capturing everything in a brief but intense flash as bright as the midday sun.

The Roman pulled his blankets tighter around his body, his words more urgent. “I am shielded from all that is harmful.”

The sound of the rain was unbearable, it pounded the earth like shards of glass.

Marcus clutched at his hair, pulling hard.

“Mithras…”

He hoped Cradoc would arrive soon.

\----

The Roman was much more accustomed to villas, build in neat squares with baths and a hypocaust.

That seemed like almost a ridiculous luxury now.  

Even a tent was preferable to this, at least Marcus’ tents during his marching days had never _leaked_.

Marcus was forced to borrow some of his mare’s hay to mend the roof, but she handled it with good grace; chewing slowly at what was left of her feed. The chickens were more demanding, following Marcus all about the yard until he had relented and tossed out some corn for them.

The Roman hastily constructed a ladder from twine and branches, it creaked under his weight when he nervously climbed up to inspect the roof.

The stalks were indeed mouldy, and Marcus was forced to cut away all that he could reach with a glum sense of foreboding. No doubt all the thatch would need replacing, but he had not the time nor the inclination for such a job.

Besides, he was only borrowing the house.

He spread the hay over the hole before descending to pack some mud into the water bucket from the well. It spread easily over the roof, and Marcus smoothed it over with the flat of his hands; covering them in muck.

In fact, the slickness of his palms caused him to drop the bucket; and he almost fell backwards trying to catch it in mid-air.

It hit the ground with a crash, and Marcus’ mare spooked.

She shrieked and tossed her head, then ran in the opposite direction of the house; toward the trees.

The Roman scrambled down the ladder and ran after her; his feet slipping on the sodden earth, splattering his lower body with mud.

The mare weaved in and out of the aspens and disappeared into the deeper, and darker part of the woods.

Marcus was forced to follow her.

After a few more paces, she came to a stop by a stream; thirsty from her exertions and taking a drink. Marcus panted, and used a nearby tree for support. If he was a cruel man he would strike her for such a stunt; but Marcus was only happy that she was safe and within his reach.

The Roman called to the mare and approached her, but his world tumbled on its head as something seized his ankle and brought him down; his head hitting the smooth stones of the river bank.

His ears were ringing, and the forest canopy was blended into the grey of the sky by his blurry eyes.

Marcus groaned, his mare nickered softly.

What was the matter with him? Normally he wasn’t so incompetent. Had all his wits been left behind at the fort?

Maybe Marcus wanted to fail so he would be dismissed and be allowed to leave. More shame, maybe he secretly craved it.

He touched his chest, feeling for his necklace; and was relieved to find the shape of his eagle at his breastbone as always.

Standing up made his stomach lurch, and Marcus swayed to one side as he tried to straighten his back. He rubbed at his throbbing forehead and hi fingers became sticky with blood.  

The Roman could not quite process what had happened, so he didn’t panic, nor do anything really; except breathe, and stare at his hand.

The sharp snap of a twig told him that another person had arrived, but his senses were sluggish so he could not prepare himself.

It was Esca.

The Briton recognised him immediately, shouting something in his own tongue as he came over; Marcus’ mind muddled the translation, something about trespassing.

It was not until the other man was close, and saw the blood, that he stopped talking.

He noticed Marcus’ head, and said something else; The Roman screwed his eyes shut, trying to listen.

“-hit your head?”

Esca moved like the wind, and before Marcus could blink he was at his left leg, inspecting something.

The Briton muttered darkly as he unwrapped the snare from the Roman’s ankle.

“Wasted a perfectly good-!”

Esca’s furious ranting was muffled, and Marcus pounded his forehead with his palm in an attempt to fix the ringing in his ears.

Two hands seized the Roman’s wrists. “Don’t do that!”

Marcus blinked, and Esca momentarily became two men before merging back into one. The Briton sighed a very long sigh, and began to tug Marcus along with him.

But he didn’t want to go; he dug his heels into the ground stubbornly, like a mule.

Esca scowled, and pulled harder. “ _Move_. I will not carry you, Roman-born.” Esca whistled and the mare trotted over, the Briton then seized her by the mane and made a third try to get his charges moving.

This time, Marcus let himself be taken.

The walk felt long, and the Roman felt himself wilting from sudden tiredness; he leaned on Esca, getting a good draw of his scent.

Honeysuckle. It was quite nice.

His muscles weren’t as pronounced as Marcus’, they were tightly compacted against Esca’s smaller frame; giving him the speed and agility of a rabbit.

Esca growled, and elbowed Marcus in the ribs; but he didn’t really feel it.

Once they had returned to the house, Esca released Marcus’ mare and more or less dragged the Roman inside. Marcus reached out to pat her on the nose, telling her she was a good horse and that he was sorry that he had frightened her into running away.

Ecsa rolled his eyes and bundled the Roman through the doorway with greater force.

Once in the house, Esca was full of comment.

“Why isn’t there any hay on the floor? And why is the fire out? It’s freezing!” He stepped on Marcus’ wolf skin, which was still damp from last night. It squelched. “ _Ugh!_ ”

Marcus busied himself with leaning on the wall and watched Esca fuss like one of his chickens, arranging things differently and lighting the fire.

He treated Marcus like a somewhat dim witted child, ushering him into a spot by the flames and dabbing at his head wound with a cloth; the Roman winced, it stung badly.

Esca snorted. “Get a grip, it’s not even that deep.”

“…I thought you were going to evict me.” Marcus said, the first time he’d spoken in a while.

Esca looked annoyed. “I might still do that, so be quiet.”

The Roman took the cloth from him. “I can do that. I don’t need pity.”

Esca set his jaw, his eyes narrowed. “Trust me. I do not pity you in the slightest, and you’re welcome. _Again_.”

Marcus moved away, feeling his temper come alive and bristling like an angry cat. “If you wish only to insult me, then leave. I’m sure you have better things to do.”

Esca shuffled his lithe body closer; reaching out for the Roman. “Get back here, your wound is not clean yet-“

Marcus huffed, and smacked at Esca’s hand. “I said _no_.”

What followed would have been very amusing to outside eyes. Two grown men chasing each other around a fire, one with a bloody forehead, the other with a thunderous expression.

After a few minutes of this, Esca exploded. “Have it then!” he tossed the rag into the flames, where it caught alight and burned. “Bleed to death for all I care!”

Marcus raised an eyebrow. “I thought you said it wasn’t deep.”

The Briton snarled. “Stop _arguing_ with me! Do you want me to-”

“What?” Marcus asked, genuinely curious. “What are you going to do? There’s nothing you can do, is there? Because I’m not one of your tribe. You don’t rule over me.”

“….you’re awfully chatty all of a sudden.”

The Roman grinned, the smile somewhat lopsided. “Head injuries. Funny things, they are.”

Esca turned briskly in a colourful whirl of plaid, the strands of his hair catching of little sunlight there was to be had. Marcus thought about how soft they might be.

“I hope it is the end of you! I might get some peace and quiet!”

“There is none of that to be found here!” Marcus called after him, watching as the prince stomped away like a child during a tantrum.

It was not until the Roman turned back around that he saw that the Briton had left his cloak. Marcus had been sitting on it by the fire, his wolf skin drying in the yard.

He felt the first, strange stirrings of something he knew good Romans shouldn’t feel; so like a good Roman he didn’t acknowledge it.

Marcus was left still hyper from their bickering, and could not settle for some time. The silence of the round house was suddenly heavier than before.

He wished, despite himself, that Esca had stayed longer. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I momentarily forgot that Esca had two brothers XD let’s assume brother number two has already died in different circumstances which will be explained later.


	4. Honeysuckle

Esca hadn’t intended to return to Tooth’s Edge so soon.

If not for the possibility of seeing Marcus, and retrieving his cloak. Though the latter reason was dwarfed by the first.

He’d been somewhat out of sorts since he’d left the man in his roundhouse after his fall in the forest. Perhaps he felt responsible.

Perhaps.

But Esca was not fretting, he wasn’t Marcus’ mother, but merely concerned that the fool might have fallen into a ditch and had broken his neck or drowned. The prince would find his bloated corpse and have to be the one to clean it up.

Marcus seemed to be a man that luck liked to shit on more than most.

Born under a bad omen, maybe.

Esca had forgiven him almost immediately for breaking his snare, he’d had his fill of rabbits anyway.

That night, when Esca had returned for the evening meal, his mother noticed his behaviour.

“Esca? Is there something wrong with your food?”

His mother’s voice anchored Esca back into the present moment, apparently he’d been staring at nothing and had sat silently for a long time. His dinner was now cold.

“No, Mother, I am just not very hungry this evening.”

Aphria creased her face in concern and reached to feel his forehead. “You are not ill, are you?” She asked, worried.

Esca gently pushed away her hand. “No, not at all.”

He wasn’t sick with something she could help with, in any case.

Erie sniggered, looking up from her embroidery. “I bet he’s gone silly over a woman! He’s always infatuated with someone around here.”

Esca threw one of his boots at her; little did she know.

It was frightening, terrifying even, this sudden attachment to a man he barely knew. A near stranger.

And what little Marcus had disclosed should not have endeared Esca to him.

A half breed tribesman, with no regard for Esca’s status.

Something about that excited the Prince, Marcus wasn’t motivated out of fear or because he wished to bestow himself with favour.

He was genuine in his ways, clumsy and a bit brutish, prone to sulking, but Esca still wanted to know more about him.

He arrived at the tiny yard around the noon hour, Marcus was tending to the hooves of his mare.

The man looked up and slowly let the mare’s foot free when he saw Esca atop his stallion.

“You are back?” He asked, approaching. “I thought I’d seen that last of you.”

The prince grinned and dismounted, letting his horse go. “No such luck. I believe I left my cloak here?”

Marcus scratched his neck in thought, the string of his curious eagle necklace being tugged by his fingers. Esca wondered where he had gotten it, if it was a gift, had he made it himself?

The eagle was symbol he’d seen the Romans with, and it made Esca uneasy.

“You did, I’ll get it.” The selgovae disappeared into the round house, returning quickly with a bundle in his arms.

“Your cloak.” Marcus dropped it into Esca’s awaiting hands, folded almost perfectly.

Esca smiled, and held it protectively under one arm. “Thank you.”

A moment passed by in which nothing happened, both men expecting the other to make some sort of decision.

The prince licked his lips, they had gone dry in the chilly air. “Could I stay a while?”

Marcus frowned. “Hm?”

Esca cleared his throat, meeting Marcus’ gaze. “I have nothing pressing to do this day, and since I have already saved you from yourself twice already-”

The other man scowled.

Esca attempted to dig out of the hole he’d made for himself. “I thought perhaps we may as well try again to get better acquainted.”

Marcus didn’t look quite convinced.

“I’ll stop calling you Roman-born if that help.”

Marcus snorted. “How kind.” He considered Esca’a offer, seeming to be wrestling with the idea in his mind before he shrugged his huge shoulders. “If it pleases you.”

Well, it was not a snub, so Esca would take it – he knew Marcus was more than capable of sending someone away if he wanted too; he would not endure forced company.

He was like a boulder, heavy in the face of pressure.

The thought that Marcus might in fact _choose_ to have Esca in his presence made him gladder than was appropriate.

“Well I’m not spoiled for companionship here. It might be nice to have someone else to talk to than the chickens.” Said the selgovae.

“…you talk to the chickens?”

Too be fair, Esca had an odd uncle that had claimed he could hear the wind whispering to him.

Marcus looked somewhat ashamed, afraid of owning his own loneliness. “It’s too quiet otherwise.”

“Don’t you have…?” Esca searched for the correct words to phase his question without offending Marcus; it was ridiculous how much he cared about this man’s feelings, it was base, and needy. “Someone nearby? To call upon you, or you to call upon them?”

Marcus’ eyes frosted over with an old sadness at Esca’s question; the kind that is shackled to a person like a dead weight and gets heavier as the years go by.

He sat on his chopping block, looking despondent.

The prince panicked silently, worried he’d already overstepped, until Marcus shook his head.

“Nobody calls in on me, and vice versa, everyone that is important to me is either dead or too far away to count.”

So family was not a good topic for conversation. That was good for Esca to know.

He had expected such a blunt answer, Marcus was not a man who fluffed up his words unnecessarily; warriors were usually curt and to the point in their responses.

But there was also an element of shielding oneself from pain, which he was beginning to suspect Marcus had seen a great deal of in his life.

Why else would he end up in this place? If he had no one that loved him, or missed him. He’d sank to the bottom of man’s ugly world like a pebble in a stream.

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Esca said. “My… brother, Earnan, died suddenly in a chariot accident in the winter of last year.”

Esca had declined going with him that day, and had advised his brother to wait until there was less ice on the ground. But Earnan had insisted it would be fine.

The tribe lit the funeral pyre that night, and had stood shocked and silent as a young warrior left them too soon.

Marcus lowered his chin respectfully, which the prince appreciated. “I have no siblings, but, I imagine that must have been terrible for you.”

Esca swallowed his grief, but oddly, it felt something of a relief to speak of his loss to someone who wouldn’t glare at him for stirring up the spirits of the dead. “Life is not a tapestry we can just weave to our whims, the gods like to play with our futures.”

The other man snorted, his eyes drifting over his house and yard. “I’ll say…”

The prince regarded the roof of the house. “That needs repairing, properly.” With a causal, only mildly interested voice, he added. “If you need some help with it, I could spare a few men to come down and aid you with it.”

Marcus seemed taken aback, flustered by the offer before righting himself. “I thank you, but I couldn’t-”

Esca swatted away his protests like flies. _Let me do this for you._

“It’s no imposition. I’d rather have men doing something useful than being idle.”

The other man rubbed his large hand over the back of his neck, embarrassed that he needed the help; the movement made the muscles of his arms ripple.

Esca bit his tongue.

“Thank you. Truly.” He said. “I’m… still getting my bearings, it seems.”

Esca titled his head like a confused feline. “Surely this can’t be too different from life among your people? Did no one teach you how to maintain a round house?”

Marcus once again had a slightly shifty look about his person, as if something unpleasant was crawling up his back. “I did not spend a great deal of time with my mother’s people, when she passed I was sent to live with my Aunt and Uncle in Rome.”

Esca’s eyes widened and his jaw half dropped open. “In Rome? How old where you?”

“Fourteen.”

Well, that explained why Marcus was a little _off._

He’d been plucked from his homeland like a young tree that had not grown strong roots and was forced to re-establish himself elsewhere. If he’d only just returned to his mother’s lands after so long, he could be very out of touch with it all.

Poor man.

“Didn’t you want to stay with your mother’s family?”

Marcus averted his gaze. “We were… pariahs. She had few friends, and most of our neighbours tried to pretend we didn’t exist at all. That home is gone, now.”

The Prince understood this well. Women who gave themselves to Roman’s willingly, even for a single night, were viewed as traitors.

Scorned, spat upon, names never uttered in polite conversation again.

Though none of that is Marcus’ fault. He was the innocent party, and yet he was the one who wore the title of bastard and kept himself isolated on a cold, barren hill.

When he was king, Esca would let it be known that men like Marcus were welcome into his round house; free to share food and stories, to drink the milk of the cows they raised with dedication.

Marcus would sit with him by the fire pit, content, warm, and rested; they’d speak of what they had lost and what they hoped for the future. 

It would be wonderful.

“That’s a pity.” Esca replied at last, then, out of the blue, he blurted “Do you hunt?”

Marcus looked bewildered at the sudden change of topic. “Hunt? Yes, I hunt. But I have nothing to hunt with, except rope for snares and my sword.”

“I will lend you a spear.” Esca offered, he was full of generous spirit today. “Or I will show you how to make one.”

The other man smirked at the corner of his mouth. “I think I’m capable of finding a stick and attaching a sharp rock to it. I’m not completely useless.”

“Good to know.” Esca quipped. “Hopefully then the boar will not outwit you.”

Marcus smiled, and the green of his eyes seemed to light up as if someone had lit a tiny flame behind them. It made Esca’s mouth dry and his toes curl.

“I would like that.” The selgovae replied, the shyness Esca had seen before making an appearance. “When?”

“Hm, how does the day after tomorrow suit? My family and I are hosting a feast so I cannot come until after.”

Marcus let out a single, humourless laugh. “So I’ll be in your company the day after you’ve drunk yourself into oblivion?”

Esca bristled. “Do not assume I can’t hold my drink, selgovae, in my clan that is considered a slight to my honour.”

“Marcus.”

“What?”

“My name is Marcus, please call me that. and I didn’t intend to offend you.” by the gods, he was sincere.

Painfully so.

How had this man remained without a wife? Surely someone, somewhere, must have looked upon him and found him appealing?

Esca thought so.

“You have not.” Esca was gentle in his tone. “Looks like I am the one who needs to learn when something is said in harmless jest.”

Marcus smiled again. “It would seem so.”

Esca squeezed the cloak under his arm. “So, I shall see you then?”

The selgovae nodded. “Till then. It will be good hunting.”

The prince heard a neigh and looked past Marcus’ bulk at the horses. His eye brows shot up.

“I would build a stable, if I were you.”

The selgovae looked puzzled. “Why?”

“Because my stallion is about to cover your mare, so I think walls separating them in the future might be wise.”

Esca wouldn’t deny that Marcus’ sudden horrified shout and his dash over to stop the stallion deflowering his mare caused the prince to bend double laughing.

 _Yes._ He thought. _I like this one._

On his way home, Esca had unfolded his cloak; nestled between the folds was a small bushel of honeysuckle flowers. 

Esca blushed. _Maybe he likes me too._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Taking some more liberties, I actually don't know what age Marcus was when he went to live with his aunt and uncle.


	5. Smoke

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update, I have a cold XD

That evening, Cradoc arrived.

Marcus embraced him fully, laughing and clapping his back like they were old comrades. He was pleased to see Cradoc, and even more grateful for the supplies he carried with him.

Some more food, blankets, and of course Marcus’ pay.

“I thought I’d been forgotten here!” The Roman declared.

“Rome will not relinquish the Centurion so easily.” Cradoc responded with his usual detached, laid back tone.

Marcus felt foolish for his behaviour, drawing back from Cradoc and giving the man some room. “Would you like to come inside? I have some broth cooking.” He wasn’t sure if it would be the tastiest of broth, but it was better than bread and oil for every meal.

Cradoc’s face twitched with a miniscule sort of smile. “What sort of broth?” he asked.

Once they had both gotten comfortable and had shared some idle talk over their food, pigeon broth as it happened, Cradoc started to speak of more serious matters.

“Has there been any talk among the tribes? About an uprising?”

Marcus shook his head. “I haven’t had much opportunity to have close bosom talks with any of the tribesman. They’re a secretive people.”

Cradoc let out a sigh, long and weary. “You’d best come up with something, no news won’t satisfy. You’re to make an in-person report to the fort commander in a week.”

The Roman slurped some of his broth, and frowned. “But surely no word of rebellion is a positive thing?”

The Dumnonii eyed him levelly. “No word doesn’t mean they are content, maybe they are clever enough not to sing their plans for war like birds.”

Marcus slumped, his spirit falling. He had known this, he was not a stupid man after all. But he knew not how to plant himself among the locals without seeming too out of place.

Then he remembered.

Esca.

He seemed oddly keen to know Marcus, so why shouldn’t he use that to his advantage? Although something about the idea of using Esca’s offer of friendship thusly made the Roman think of cess pits and curdled milk.

Still, his duty to Rome came first.

His duty to restore his family name came first.

Marcus sat up. “Actually, I have made a friend of one of them- he’s quite something among his people, important. His influence could be useful if I gain his favour.”

Important, arrogant, witty, impatient.

Marcus left out the part about Esca being heir to the Brigantes.

Cradoc raised an eyebrow, mildly interested. “Oh?”

Marcus nodded. “I might be able to persuade him to part with some things, we’re going hunting tomorrow.”

The other man kept his face blank, his features flickering with the light of the fire.

“I advise the Centurion to tread with care. The men here have no love for the Romans, if you are discovered, they will cut off your head and mount it before you have time to be afraid.”

Marcus stilled, his spoon halfway to his mouth. “It is my risk, Cradoc. I have been given this post and I will complete my mission.”

Cradoc seemed to be momentarily taken with anger, his hands squeezing his bowl until his knuckles paled. But just as soon as it had arrived, the fury was doused and the warrior’s stoic ere returned to replace it.

“As you say. But…be wary.” He met Marcus’ gaze with such unabashed boldness the Roman shrank back before him. “There has been an incident, a druid was being harboured by some locals and refused to give him up when confronted...”

He dropped his eyes to his food.

Marcus’ mind filled in the blanks were Cradoc had omitted the details.

He paled.

He imagined a family, a proud father and mother, confronted by a small army of men.

 Their children, young and red haired, watching from behind their mother with wide, frightened eyes.

An order was given and in a few moments the house was filled with screams and precious possessions falling to the floor, the druid burned alive as the building was engulfed in flames.

Even as the fire and smoke surrounded him, still he did not give himself up. He would rather die, slowly, and painfully, than surrender.

Marcus hoped that, when it was his time to die, he ended it with half of the courage that the druid had.

The Roman’s fingers reached up to the familiar spot behind his ear, the sharp pain comforting him in the face of the image his mind had created.

Discreetly, he dusted the hairs to floor.

Cradoc was silent.

“I know what I’m getting into, Cradoc.”

The Dumnonii looked regretful. “I hope so, for your sake, I really do.”

\---

By the next day, Cradoc’s ominous warnings were as weightless as fallen leaves, Marcus raced through the forest in pursuit of a boar; with Esca riding at his side.

They were united, two bodies but sharing a single mind; hunting with the effortless synchronisation of a wolf pack.

The boar was beginning to weaken, froth flying from his snout and his squeals piercing the air like a glorious war cry.

“Go around!” Marcus ordered, falling into his old position as commander. Esca, for his part, obeyed and cut the boar off on his left side; allowing the Roman to strike the animal down with his newly crafted spear.

The pig hits the ground with an earth shaking thud.

Marcus fails to slow his mare quickly enough and she half stumbles, throwing him from her back.

“Marcus!”

The Roman fell sideways, but he landed only on his rump and not his head.

Esca leapt from his saddle and knelt beside him, concern alight in his face. “Are you alright?”

Marcus mentally checks himself, he was jaded and sore but alive. “Alright enough.”

The prince looked genuinely relieved, and _something_ happened in Marcus’ chest which he suspected could be from the rough landing.  He ignored it and stood up with Esca’s help.

The beast was magnificent.

Scarred and grizzled, a true king of the forest. Esca offered thanks to his gods and Marcus silently did the same.

_Mithras, lord of light, bless you for making my spear strike true._

Esca refused help gutting the boar, which Marcus didn’t mind too much; he had never had the stomach for that part of the hunt in any case, but it is awkward for him to just sit and wait while Esca worked.

He realised he knew next to nothing about Esca’s family, save for a dead brother. If he was to convince the Briton to share secrets with him, he needed to appear interested in the man’s life.

“Tell me about your family.” Marcus asked.

The Briton answered without looking up from his messy work.

“My father is the chieftain of the Brigantes, I am his charioteer and armour bearer in times of war-” Esca tossed some entrails into the underbrush. “My mother and he have been wed since they were sixteen, I have one remaining brother and a very irritating little sister.”

Marcus thought it might be nice to have a sister, a brother maybe not so much, he didn’t like to think of another male Aquila child having to share his burden. It would be unfair.

“And your tribe? How many are you?”

“Five hundred spears, plus women and children.” Esca replied, proudly.

“Do you have-?”

The Briton shakes his head, guessing what Marcus was going to ask next. “I am not wed, nor have I any bratlings of my own. Maybe someday.”

Something about that eased the tension in the Roman’s shoulders, at least Esca had only his siblings and parents to mind for if everything went terribly wrong.

Marcus considered.

Five hundred could be a formidable force if summoned, not to mention if Esca’s father had any alliances with the neighbouring peoples. They know this land, the Roman’s here are at a disadvantage.

They may have superior weapons and tactics, but that is nothing if they are taken by surprise, away from familiar ground.

“And…all is well?”

Esca appeared somewhat bemused by the question.

Marcus coughed. “I mean, there is no unrest? You have enough food? There is no talk of war?”

The Briton chuckled. “Warriors are restless without war. So there is always unrest, but yes, we have enough to feed ourselves for now.” Then, he added, with an edge of bitterness. “Unless the Roman’s tax us out of our own homes.”

The Roman looked elsewhere but Esca, he didn’t much like the sight of the other man up his elbows in blood and guts, and he felt guilty.

He shouldn’t. He should stand by Rome’s right to tax their subjects, and yet.

“No offence.”

Marcus held up a hand. “None taken.”

Esca regarded Marcus for a moment, then crossed the ground to a nearby trickling stream to rid his hands of the boar’s blood. The water ran red. “You are odd.”

“How?”

Esca’s mouth quirked upwards in that mischievous way Marcus knew meant trouble. “Would you like the short list or the long?”

Marcus sighed. “Please. Spare me, just for once get to the point of it.”

The Briton stood with his hands on his hips. “I just insulted your father, and you say nothing, and I have never known a warrior to look away just because of a bit of blood.”

A muscle in the Roman's jaw twitched. "I just don't care for it. You're going to stink to the heavens, by the way."

Esca shrugged. "I can bathe later, and what is it about blood that bothers you so?"

Marcus went quiet. He'd cut his hand as a child, it had bled all over his tunic and he'd been terrified to return home and show his mother. She was harassed enough with his father's demise and rejection from their neighbours, the last things she needed was to see him covered in blood.

He had waited till it was dark out, then secretly returned home and hid his tunic under a loose flag stone in their yard.

Marcus had crawled into bed, cold, and miserable. No one had even noticed he'd been gone so long. "I... cannot say."

Esca snorted.

"You're as soft as lambs wool, aren't you?"

"I am _not_."

The Prince chortled. “I bet you fainted when you had your painting ceremony?”

Marcus bristled, crossing his arms. "I do not _faint_ , thank you.” To accuse him of something so womanly grated on the Roman’s all ready somewhat frayed nerves. Esca was very good at making Marcus hiss and spit like an outraged cat.

“Cry, then?”

“No.” The Roman snaps. “And I don’t even know what you’re asking about.”

Esca’s face falls, and Marcus has no time to retract his words.

“You don’t…?” The Briton is by Marcus’ side as quick as the wind and is tugging at his tunic, wanting him to take it off. 

Marcus shrieks.

Yes, he shrieks just a little, and swats at Esca’s hands as if they are on fire. “Get off! What are you doing?”

Esca pulls harder. “I want to see.”

The Roman kicks and slaps at the man attempting to get him bare chested. “Let go! Are you out of your mind?!”

But it is too late; with a grunt, Esca forces Marcus’ tunic over his head.

He is left furious and chilly as Esca danced away with his tunic, getting out of reasonable hitting distance and looking the Roman up and down. His eyes trailed over Marcus’ body, it makes him hot and unsure and he wants to crawl away and hide.

“You… haven’t been painted.” Esca finally said, voice flat.

Painted?

He must have meant the marks the Britons decorated themselves with, each tribe having their own symbol and colour.

Marcus hadn’t thought of it, but surely he couldn’t have gone so far with this deception as to have his skin permanently scarred?

Marcus didn’t think he could have suffered that, not even for Rome.

His heart thundered against his ribs, his mouth dried up, his mind frantically tried to come up with an excuse. “I…”

But Esca didn’t look angry, he looked… melancholy. “You were taken away before you were made a man, weren’t you? to live in Rome?”

A life line had been tossed at his feet, and Marcus took it. “Um… yes?”

The Briton approached, pity etched on his features. “I am sorry… I didn’t know.” In a strange twist, Esca looks meek and regretful, handing back Marcus’ tunic.

“Its…fine.” Marcus mumbled, dressing himself and glad that he is no longer being scrutinized.

As he tries to smooth the creases with his palms, Esca’s hand finds its way over Marcus’ breastbone.

He freezes, focusing on the touch, his other senses quietening the world around them.

“It doesn’t matter.” Esca said, with sincerity. “Truly.”

The Roman recoiled. He was unworthy of this, he was a liar, Esca didn’t know the man he really was.

His people had come to Esca’s land and were slowly leaching away like a giant parasite, taking everything they believed was owed to them; by some almighty, arrogant right that all Romans shared and bred into their children.

Rome, for the first time, seemed like an ugly place.

Esca tugged on Marcus’ wrist, pulling him back to the present. “Come and meet my people.”

“What?”

Esca gestured to the boar. “This make a fine feast, but I need your help carrying it back and… I’d like to share it with you. We hunted like brothers today.”

Marcus should have accepted Esca’s offer immediately, the information he could gather would be invaluable. If he was correct in thinking Britons partook in alcohol at feasts, then tongues would be loose and hearts not so well guarded.

It was perfect, he could not have asked the gods to bless him with a better opportunity.

All the same, Marcus was suddenly, shamefully bashful. “I… that’s very generous of you… but I couldn’t impose.”

“Nonsense! You’d be very welcome.” Esca said, he would clearly not take no for an answer. Marcus wondered if turning down an invitation was considered rude.

“Oh, well. Yes, then. I would love too.” He relented.

The Briton’s face brightened like the sun, and indicated for Marcus to help him in heaving the boar over the rear end of his horse and tying it down.

“You will enjoy yourself. I shall see to it.”

Marcus let out a sort of unsure chuckle. “That’s… what I’m afraid of.”

 


	6. Yew

Esca brought his stallion into a gentle trot as they neared the settlement.

Pulling the reins taunt in his hands, he turned his head to make sure he had not lost his companion on the way. Sure enough, Marcus, riding atop his black mare was following close behind.

He looked somewhat unsure, as if Esca was leading him down a dark, unknown path, forced to put his trust in him; and hoping he would not find betrayal or danger.

Marcus was not the kind of man who leaned on others easily.

There was a fear buried deep inside him, and had nurtured by bitter experience; to rely on another made you weak, left you vulnerable.

It was a very Roman state of mind.

The Prince’s heart was full of sympathy for the lonely, weary man, stripped of the ways of his true people and dressed to be a proper Roman citizen. But there was a spark of rebellion in him, and Esca was determined to ignite it.

Mead would definitely help.

They passed through the giant wooden overhang wherein the scouts spotted Esca and greeted him accordingly, but they did not recognise Marcus.

“My lord! Who is it that follows you like a second shadow?”

 “A friend.” Esca replied. “He is Selgovae, I can vouch for him.”

There was little room for argument, the scouts gave the signal and the great doors were opened.

Esca rode in with confidence, Marcus trailed behind, keeping his head lowered as if he was trying to conceal himself.

“You needn’t worry, if I say you are trustworthy, you will be made welcome.”

Marcus self-consciously rubbed at his chin, he had a bit of pitiful scruff starting to grow. “I feel like a boy here.”

Esca laughed. “It must be the Roman blood in you that stops your beard from flourishing.”

Truthfully, the Prince was unsure if a beard would suit Marcus; he had such a beautifully cut jaw, it would be a shame to hide it.

Esca was sure all of Marcus would be beautiful, if he wasn’t so stubbornly fully clothed all the time. But now he was aware that the Selgovae had missed out on his chance to become a warrior with his peers, so he understood it.

The lack of tattoos would draw attention, the kind Marcus tried very hard to avoid. He was a private, and proud man.

He and the Selgovae handed their horses away to be stabled and fed, and Esca lead the way down the weaving dirt paths towards his family’s house.

Marcus’ eyes lingered on everything, the people bustling about, the animals, the smoke rising into the sky from cooking fires; the Prince wondered if this was stirring any memories of home for him.

Then, a troop of young men, laughing and merry strode towards them with Esca’s brother as their leader.

“Eoghann!” he called.

“Esca!”

Soon the Prince was surrounded, his brother embracing him. “You missed good hunting!” He declared. “Where have you been wondering off to these days past? I miss my brother!”

Over Esca’s shoulder, he spotted Marcus. The mood shifted. “Are you aware you have a giant following you?”

The Prince imagined Marcus would be rolling his eyes. He pushed his sibling aside and went to stand by his friend, almost shielding him from the judging pairs of sharp eyes.

“Marcus, of the Selgovae, he dwells on Tooth’s edge. I invited him here to eat with us and share stories.”

There was a bit of muttering among his brother’s companions, Esca narrowed his eyes. “If you have something to say, why not say it aloud so we may all share in it?” That quickly shut them up.

Eoghann smiled mischievously, eyeing the entirety of Marcus.

“Oh, so this is what, or should I say _who_ has been keeping you busy these days past.”

The Selgovae looked confused, as if he thought he had misheard. Esca kicked his brother in the shin. “Have some respect! He is a guest.”

Eoghann laughed harder, hopping on his good foot. “I shall see you and your Selgovae at dinner tonight then, dear brother.”

He and his band scuttled away, still chittering to themselves and peering over their shoulders as they went. Esca sighed, the sooner his brother grew up, the better.

Marcus cleared his throat. “I hope I’m not causing any trouble for you-”

The Prince whipped around. “No! No, Eoghann is an idiot boy. He’ll try and goad you at any opportunity. Ignore him.”

Feeling the need to reassure Marcus, he took the Selgovae’s upper arm in his hand; he was terribly warm through the wool of his tunic.

 “It has been so long, I’ve forgotten how to conduct myself at dinner…”

The Prince scoffed. “What’s took now? Just eat and talk.” He squeezed Marcus’ arm in a way he hoped was comforting. “And I will sit with you, just in case.”

Marcus went pink around his nose and ears, though he kept his expression stoic and dignified as Esca lead him away.

This was either going to go very well, or completely wrong.

Esca willed the fates to be kind.

\---

Esca’s mother loved Marcus.

He thought she might.

Esca’s grandmother had spoken of his mother as a little girl, bringing home injured creatures and nursing them back to health. As she grew, she progressed to people.

She had stitched wounds and soothed hurts of her husband and later her children.

Aphria seemed to sense Marcus was in need of a bit of mothering, she refilled his bowl whenever it was empty and once or twice she even smoothed his fringe from his face.

The Selgovae flinched the first time, but soon relaxed under her gentle touch; even letting his eyelids flutter closed, Esca wondered if Marcus missed his own mother.

His father greeted him more coolly, but that was just Cunoval’s way; calculating the possible outcome from a distance.

Eoghann was thankfully too procured with his roasted boar to pay much attention to Marcus, which Esca counted as a blessing.

However, the Selgovae was sat next to Erie, who occasionally whispered into his ear while looking directly at her older brother. Marcus glanced at Esca and bit back a laugh, scratching his nose so that the other man could not see his smile.

Esca sulked, his terrible sister was already ruining his evening.

But Marcus’ face, although half obscured by the rising smoke, was bright with happiness and the serious lines had all but vanished. He was content.

Esca imagined him, all muscle and unmarked skin spread across the furs of his bed; waiting, with a smile of want on his face and his green eyes dancing with lust. His lips as red as yew berries.

Emboldened by the alcohol in his blood, the Prince wanted to clasp Marcus’ knee with his palm; publically make his interest known. Alas he was not close enough to touch the Selgovae without making a spectacle of himself.

“So, Marcus-” Said Cunoval. “Have you never considered returning to your tribe? If you need an escort, I can provide you with one for the journey.”

Marcus shook his head. “Thank you, that’s very kind, my Lord. But no, I was more or less raised by Rome… I didn’t get the chance to be made a warrior, and my family was not well liked. So I doubt I’ll be received warmly.”

There was a stiff silence that followed after Rome’s name was spoken, Esca’s brother chewed his food with more force than was strictly necessary.

Aphria’s brow furrowed with concern. “But surely, given her passing, their anger would have abated? It has been several years after all.”

The Selgovae shifted about. A nervous habit. “I am satisfied with my life as it is, I’d rather not stir up old hurts with my presence… I can live anywhere.”

“Why not return to Rome then? If that’s your true home.” Eoghann perked up, eyes flashing with something Esca did not deem to be friendly.

Marcus rose to the challenge. “Because I was born here, even if I cannot live in my mother’s house, or even with her people, I will never escape the pull this land has upon me.”

Cunoval seemed satisfied with his answer. Esca allowed himself a sigh of relief, feeling foolish for the worry in the first place, of course Marcus could handle himself.

But Eoghann, as it happened, was only warming up. “How many horses do you have, Marcus? Or is it cattle that the Selgovae prefer to covet?”

Esca growled.

Of course Marcus would have neither, travelling from Rome meant he could only bring what was essential.  He didn’t even own a dog.

Animals, as well as jewellery and fine clothing, were marks of someone’s wealth and status.

Marcus, with his simple attire and lack of livestock portrayed him to be in a humiliating state of poverty. Only slaves had so little.

The Selgovae raised his head with something akin to pride for the first time since Esca had met him. “In Rome, my uncle owned a fine stable of many horses, dogs for hunting and pigs.  I could not bring them with me, I doubt they could swim so far across the ocean.”

Cunoval chuckled quietly at the joke, and Esca too allowed himself a laugh, his mother and sister shared a smile and the tension in the room evaporated.

Eoghann, however, looked about ready to strangle a wolf, his colour rising with his anger; Marcus seemed pleased with himself, draining his cup of mead.

Esca’s brother raised his chin, turning to speak to their father with a casual tone, but his words were anything but casual. “I heard rumour, father, that the Seal people have stolen a Roman artefact and are now keeping it hidden away as an idol. Some sort of symbol… a sacred object of their soldiers.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Esca noticed that Marcus had stopped eating; suddenly paying attention to every word. Even Erie and Aphria’s faces darted towards Eoghann like concerned birds.

What was he doing?

“You shouldn’t spend your days listening to these foolish tales, my son.” Cunoval scolded.

Eoghann was persistent. “But father! Didn’t you and our uncle’s fight united with our shield brothers from the tribes of the hills against a Roman invasion some years past? Maybe that is when they acquired it.”

In the dim light of the house, eyes could deceive, but Esca was almost certain he saw Marcus slowly turn white.

“…you wish to speak of this now? You were not born then, and Esca was only a boy.” Their father grumbled, adjusting himself so his old bones were more comfortable. “Yes, we were there. It was a glorious victory for us. But many good warriors fell that day, I believe our future may lie with making peace with the Romans; we cannot afford such losses over and over again.”

“But wouldn’t it be glorious… to have captured a piece of Rome, to have stolen something from them as they have stolen from us.” Eoghann looked towards Marcus and smirked like a weasel.

 Esca was mere seconds away from punching his nasty little expression clean off his smug face.

“Like I said, tis a rumour, nothing more.” Cunoval concluded, with a tone of finality. He changed the subject to the upcoming winter, and the preparations they would have to make to stop themselves from starving.

Marcus’ forehead was covered in a thin sheet of perspiration, there was a slight tremor to his hand and his eyes were staring out at a point far away.

When Esca’s mother asked if he was well, Marcus suddenly got to his feet. “I need some air… please excuse me.” And he tumbled from the house at speed and without a single glance back.

Esca, damning the consequences, fled after him. “Marcus!”

The night had become dark and cold, Esca’s breath drifted out from his lips in a white cloud; lingering for a blink before dispersing.  

Marcus was leaning against an oak tree nearby, back to Esca, panting heavily as if he’d been running.

They were quite alone, save for a screeching owl somewhere far away.

Esca approached, flooded with worry. “Marcus?”

The Selgovae turned, and took a step back as the Prince grew nearer, he seemed to be searching for something in Esca’s face; reassurance, maybe. “Esca… your people, they-”

“It’s alright… your safe here, don’t feel ashamed. You’re not one of them.”

“Esca, I- you don’t understand-”

“Shh…I do…” Esca soothed, taking Marcus’ face in his hands. “Come here…”

Slowly, he leaned forward, expecting to feel the softness of the Selgovae’s lips and the warmth of his tongue; wondering what he would taste of.

Instead, he felt nothing; thin air to be exact, because Marcus jumped out of his reach.

Esca was not prepared, and he tripped over a root of the oak tree; landing face first into a mud hole.

After the shock subsided, the Prince cursed loudly and unpeeled himself from the mess with an unpleasant wet sound. “What the _fuck-”_

Wiping the mud from his face, he looked up to where the Selgovae had been standing.

But Marcus was already retreating into the woods, his cloak flying behind him; soon, he was gone completely from Esca’s sight.

“…what do I have to do?...” Esca mumbled.


	7. Metal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long chapter is long o.o

Marcus was roused in the morning by a headache so painful he wished that a herd of rampaging horses would trample him and end his misery. His temple pounded like the beat of a terrible drum, and his stomach twisted.

The Roman could not ignore the pain any longer, and with a miserable grunt sat up from his bed; or he would have; if he’d made it all the way to his bed in the first place.

It seemed he’d collapsed in the middle of his dwelling, with his head buried in the furs of his sleeping area – a pity he hadn’t suffocated during the night.

His guts once again heaved, and Marcus fought to stand up right and get outside.

But the scorching, unforgiving light of the sun made everything so much worse; and Marcus finally watched as the mead he’d happily swigged at dinner make a reappearance.

With his retching, came the memories.

The Roman flushed when the thought of Esca, drunk as Marcus had been, leaned in to press a kiss against his lips.

Then Marcus had run away like a maiden fleeing from the attentions of an unwanted suitor.

He’d left in the middle of a meal with the Chieftain of the Brigantes, the _Chieftain,_ without so much as an explanation or an apology.

Esca’s people had slaughtered his father’s men.

That idea sent another pulse of nausea through the Roman’s body, forcing him to lean on the wall of the round house for support.

A cold feeling spread up Marcus’ spine like climbing frost.

 His father had died at the hands of the Brigantes, and the other tribes who had fought that faithful battle. Although Esca’s father and Uncles might not have held the swords that had struck him down; they had played a part.

Marcus had come to admire these people, their generosity to a complete stranger, the connection they had to the earth they stood on, and the untameable fearsome spirits of their warriors.

But Marcus was a Roman.

They were Britons.

Esca was a Briton. He may have been just a boy at the time of the attack, it was still his legacy; inescapable, just as Marcus’ was.

He would be bound to the story of the lost Eagle till the day he died, just as Esca’s people would sing the song of their victory for centuries to come.

Marcus heard a familiar whinny behind him.

In his desperate attempts to get away, he’d left his mare at the settlement. Had she returned home by herself?

He straightened up and peered over his shoulder; Esca was standing a few feet away with his mare in hand, and with a face like thunder.

“I brought your horse.” He said, clipped and angry. “Not that you probably appreciate it, or anything else I’ve done for you for that matter.”

Marcus groaned and rubbed his face. “Please, Esca, I am in no state for this fight.”

Esca snarled. “I don’t give a _fuck_ how hung over you are-” He barked. “How _dare_ you leave like that? Have you any idea how privileged you were to eat dinner with a chieftain? My father? You insulted my _entire_ family-”

The Roman flinched. “I didn’t intend too, I’m truly sorry…”

“I had to pretend you were taken ill! And my mother was _worried_ about you.” Esca’s face was red with rage. “She wanted me to make sure you were alright.”

Marcus was slowly being reduced to a puddle of guilt, wanting to retreat under a rock for his actions. “…she’s nice, your mother.”

“She’s _very_ nice.” Esca spat. “And you are going to apologise to her! And my father! With a gift.”

The Roman looked around, as if considering if the dirt or the stones would make a suitable present. “I… don’t have anything.”

The Briton huffed. “Buy something, and don’t even try to be cheap. I’ll cut your balls off.”

“…would they like a chicken?” Marcus asked, as one of his hens pecked the ground by his feet.

“We have lots of chickens.” Esca replied, dry and flat.

Somehow, the tension seemed to ease, just enough for Marcus to be sure Esca wasn’t going to murder him and bring back his head as a trophy.

“Also-” The Briton continued. “I don't understand how you feel about me.”

Marcus blinked. “Eh?”

“Oh don’t even try to pretend.” Esca tied up Marcus’ mare and came to stand toe to toe with the taller man. “Let’s just be honest about this, because subtlety isn’t working. I haven’t been as frank as I should have been because you seem to be shy about it and I didn't want to push-”

“What- _What?_ ”  The Roman was completely lost.

Esca looked sulky. “I've never been rejected before. Never. Anyone else would be flattered by my attention. I suppose... I want to know why?”

There was a beat of complete silence where Marcus’ mind went around in circles trying to find the threads of this conversation. Blood drained from his head and down to his belly which made him dizzy and ever so slightly aroused when he thought about kissing Esca, for real this time.

 “I…” Marcus’ lips were dry. “I…I rejected you?”

Yes, perhaps he’d entertained some less than pure thoughts about Esca but he put it down to loneliness; and that loneliness manifesting itself as an attraction to the nearest warm body. 

The memories of the previous night were half formed, and blurred with alcohol. He hadn’t been in his right mind, upset by what he had learned.

Esca looked confused. “You… ran away, I’m not sure what else it could be. I didn't want to chase after you for that very reason.”

Marcus bristled. “I didn’t run.” Romans didn’t run.

“Walked at speed in the opposite direction, then.” Esca offered. “But the point stands. I desire you, and...” He stepped closer. "I want to know if...you feel as I do."

The Roman felt himself grow hot in the face. How could Esca be so open about something like this? It was painfully attractive, which didn’t help Marcus in trying to keep his head.

_Desire?_

Marcus’ mouth moved, but he could not find words. Soon, Esca was leaning towards him for the second time; and the Roman could not will himself to flee.

“I thought the British didn’t kiss.”

“…You really have been away from your homeland too long.”

The Briton’s mouth was like a warm, wet cave, with hot breath and biting teeth. Marcus allowed him to apply a bit of pressure, chewing on his bottom lip. Esca was used to being in charge.

A hand snuck up the Roman’s tunic and rubbed at his nipple, the skin on skin contact was so jarring that the Roman gasped and twisted away as if he had been burned. No one, not even the few whores he’d indulged had made him react so.

It was dangerous.

He was already half way to being hard.

Esca let out a puff of indignation at the response, his lips red and slick with spittle “Why do you flee from me?”

“Your warriors killed my father!” Marcus could no longer hide it anymore, the truth surged from him like the bile he had thrown up that morning. He almost wished he could end this lunacy here, tell it all, free himself from the web of lies he’d built.

The Briton faltered. “What?”

“My father…” The Roman began. “He was the…” he searched for a word in British that might suit, “Commander of the Ninth Legion, he and his five thousand men marched to the north and they disappeared. I was only a child… and my father was lost to me, my mother grieved for him.”

 _Along with the eagle_ , he thinks.

Esca seemed unsure of what to say, which was very unusual.

Several moments of silence stretched between them.

“I… am sorry.” Esca said at last, carefully. “But we were only defending our lands, surely you must understand… you are a halfblooded tribesman after all. Your father came to punish us because we would not bow to the name of Rome.”

He was appealing to Marcus’ non-existent British half; if the Roman were indeed the son of a local woman perhaps he would feel differently, but as it stood that day in his tiny, dusty yard, there was only loss and resentment.

His want for Esca was strong, but the need to protect his family name was stronger still.

“I suppose I must, then.” The Roman replied, cold like the air.

Esca didn’t seem to notice the tone. “I will not deny that it is unfortunate our families crossed paths like this before we had even met…” He shook his head. “Very unfortunate… but we are on the same side now, Marcus.”

Something ugly awoke in Marcus, something he’d been repressing since his childhood, it uncurled its tentacles and took over his body. “The same side?”

Esca nodded. “Yes, we are both tribesmen, standing on our ancestor’s land. Let us not speak of Rome, or Romans, let’s leave the past to rest.” He reached for Marcus’ hand. “It’ll be easier for us both.”

He whirled around and faced Esca, nostrils flaring. “I’m _sorry_.” He snapped “Am I making things difficult for you?”

The Briton wasn’t expecting a confrontation, so he had no prepared defence.

“I apologise, I hadn’t realised that the fact my father and his men were _slaughtered_ by your people thwarted your plans to hump me in the woods!” Marcus laughed, it was bitter and without humour. “If I’d known, I would have spared you the inconvenience!”

Esca tried to interject. “I-”

“You would rather me just forget what I heard the previous night?” he demanded. “Then you could charm your way in? If our situations were switched, would it be fair for me to expect the same?”

“Of course not!” The Briton argued. “Marcus I’m not asking you to forget it happened, I just don’t want you to-“

“To what? Use it against you? To think of it when you put your hands on me?”

Esca looked as if someone had struck him across the face. “Marcus.”

“You have never had any hardship, have you?” Marcus would not wait for Esca to answer, he was in the midst of a great passion. “Your life has been one easy stepping stone after another, and now you are a _Prince-_ ”

His fluency in British might be good, but in his rage his grip on the language was beginning to slip. Marcus longed for Latin. “You have everything you could ever want, respect, praise, a wonderful family, and I wager no one has ever refused you anything!”

Esca looked dumb founded, as if he’d never conceived that Marcus could roar.  “That’s not, I didn’t mean to make it seem-”

His breath was coming out in breathy, furious pants, then Marcus lowered his voice. “Here’s a harsh lesson: we don’t always get what we want.”

Marcus wanted to restore his family’s honour, he wanted his father to have lived to have grey hairs, and he wanted Esca to understand how _painful_ it had been; maybe they could still salvage something, if the Briton understood how Marcus felt.

Maybe…

But The Briton didn’t respond, backing away with wide eyes as if Marcus was some sort of dangerous animal.

The Roman turned his back, exhausted, his voice far away. “As you say, there are others who would be flattered by your interest. Others who will not deny you because of a wretched Roman who died years ago, go and be with them.”

He heard the Briton make a move towards him. “But… I want _you_.”

Marcus growled. “Leave, Esca.” Then, as quietly as a bird’s wing, “ _Please_.”

There was a long beat before the Roman heard the scurrying of leaves and then the pounding of hooves as the Prince fled down the hill. “Let me know when you decide where your loyalty lies!”

Tears, salty and stinging sprung forth at the corners of Marcus’ eyes. Quickly, he wiped them away with his arm and pretended they were never there.

He was a Roman.

Roman’s did not cry.

\---

It was strange to be in full armour again.

Marcus had never felt as heavy in it as he did now, standing at painfully straight backed attention.

The tent of the fort Centurion was so tidy that you’d scarcely believe a soul lived in it at all; not a paper or piece of gear was out of place, and everything was spotless.

Centurion Magnus Marcellus Cato was a man entering retirement age; muscled but a bit heavy around the middle as older men were; still, he was impeccably turned out. Not a fault in his appearance could be found, he would have been very handsome in his prime.

He had a cluster of hair so black it almost looked blue, dusted with silver, and a pair of amber brown eyes that spoke of wisdom but also weariness.

Marcus wondered if he had some Syrian lineage.

They had been introduced the evening prior when Marcus arrived, but it had been only a brief encounter, as the Centurion advised Marcus to eat, bath and sleep before coming to his tent for a discussion about the mission.

He’d hoped Lutorius would be present, he’d welcomed Marcus back to the fort and had attempted to make some conversation with him; alas Marcus was in a foul mood, not even the appearance of the Legion’s cat Tiberius had brought him joy. 

The plumb, ginger creature sat at the foot of Marcus’ bunk, but the Roman couldn’t manage anything more than a half-hearted pat for the mouser.

Marcus had been grateful to be left alone to himself, as he was not receptive to any human company at present.

The evening dragged on and didn’t improve.

The food had been tasteless, the water cold, and he had not found any sleep.

One thought dominated his mind; he’d been cruel to Esca.

He hadn’t seen or heard from the prince in several days since their quarrel, and the Roman hated to leave things unresolved; but his duty called, and he saddled his horse and made for the fort with a cover of darkness to hide him.

Marcus had been angry and frightened and had needed something to strike at. He didn’t regret his words about Esca being spoiled, he was, and entitled.

Still, he was only young.

Young in a way Marcus was envious of.

But he was _good_ , brave and strong, witty and free.

His world was safe and secure.

Until the Romans decided to ruin it all.

What Marcus had to say could have a huge impact on not only Esca’s future, but also the future of his tribe.

The Roman had heard and seen nothing of a rebellion, but Cradoc’s warnings still rang in his mind. If he was to make amends and protect the Brigantes from harm, he would need to navigate this carefully.

“Aquila, I appreciate you coming all the way back to make your report to me.” He said. “In such… odd circumstances, the journey could not have been an easy one.”

The Roman rolled his shoulders, uncomfortable. “It was no great hardship, Centurion.”

Cato nodded. “Very well, let us get to the crux of it. I know you have only been at your post a few weeks, but have you learned anything of value thus far?”

_Let me know when you decide where your loyalty lies_

Marcus took in a breath. “I have not.”

Cato frowned, his dark bushy brows almost meeting. “Nothing at all?”

Marcus shook his head. “No, I have eaten with the chieftain of the Brigantes himself, and there were no whispers what so ever of any sort of rebellion. At present, the people seem content.”

Cato leaned back in his chair, he looked like a tired lion. “For now. And the chieftain you say? How did you manage that?”

Marcus felt slimy, as if his deception oozed from his pores and covered him all over. “…I made a friend of his son, he invited me to eat with his family.”

The other man seemed impressed. “Good initiative Aquila, you’ve achieved more than most men in only a short period of time. The trust you have earned will come in very useful, Rome will be pleased. ” 

“Thank you, Centurion, but-” Marcus cut in. “Is there a need for me to remain at my posting? Now we know the Brigantes are not planning an attack.”

The tent was quiet, Cato worked his jaw. “That seems presumptive of you, Aquila. Rome will decide when this mission will conclude. And, you have only been at…where is it exactly?”

“It’s called Tooth’s Edge.” Marcus said glumly.

Cato blinked. “…Charming name. You have only been at your post for not even a full two months-”

To Marcus it had already felt much longer, and it would have been longer still if not for Esca…

His mind drifted. He pictured curling blond hair, lithe, firm muscles and a pair of eyes grey as a storm cloud.

Marcus tuned out of Cato’s monologue for a while, only to regain his attention near the end. He didn’t think he had missed a great deal.

“And you believe the Brigantes will not have a change of heart? What if they decide that the tax is too high this year? Or that someone must be blamed for failing crops and dead cattle?”

Marcus’ temper twitched. _They are not simple minded, superstitious savages, they are people. Mothers, fathers, children._

Cato continued, “I know you must be cold and bored out of your mind, Mithras knows I am, but it is out of my hand. I lack the authority to simply dismiss you. You must remain where you are.”

Marcus licked his dry, cold lips. “For how long?”

The other man shrugged. “A few more months, at most.”

Marcus’ eyes widened. “ _Months?_ ”

The Centurion eyed Marcus with an expression that conveyed his relative helplessness in this. “It’s the best I can do at the moment, I will send letters, but that takes time. As soon as I know anything, I will send that native guide of ours to inform you.”

Marcus champed at the bit like a worried horse, he wanted an assurance that Esca’s tribe would be unharmed. “But…the Brigantes-”

Cato looked suspicious. “I think you’re forgetting yourself, Aquila, take a moment to remember you are a Roman before taking on your savage persona again. And keep your eye out… you may yet find something.” He said, “If these people are as innocent as you claim, they have nothing to fear.”

Marcus bit his tongue, the way the other man said ‘innocent’ was a double edged sword make no mistake.

The Roman saluted stiffly. “Centurion.”

“Dismissed.”

He left the tent in a few strides, throwing the canvas flaps aside with force.

Marcus knew he was trapped, and there was nothing more to be done or said about it.

He was a mere playing piece on a larger board, a tiny cog turning in the giant machine of empire. His own feelings of self-importance at the start of all this felt ridiculous and pathetic now.

Why was he better than Esca, or any Briton, just by the virtue of being a Roman? Were they not all humble creatures before nature and the will of the gods?

Rome’s threads were beginning to fray, and Marcus allowed it to happen.

Still, he fretted over the immediate future. This had not gone the way he had hoped, he had not secured his own freedom or safety for Esca; nothing to put his word on.

All he had was the vague promise that the Roman army would not attack unless they felt the need too. But tensions were high, and it was easy to provoke a beast who is already looking for a fight, even by accident.

While he was lost in his musings, Lutorius appeared, looking concerned at Marcus’ expression, “That bad, sir?” he enquired.

Marcus groaned. “Worse.” Then added, “I need my horse.”

“Stay for the morning meal at least, sir.”

Marcus smiled tiredly. “Gruel here is not much different to gruel elsewhere Lutorius, but thank you.”

The old soldier gave Marcus’ shoulder a companionable pat, “At least you won’t be alone.”

Something caught at the back of Marcus’ throat, and he fought to swallow it, “…I shouldn’t linger, but truly, thank you for the offer.” He replied, with a slight shake to his voice “We will eat together another time.”

Lutorius nodded and said with sincerity, “I look forward to it, sir.”  

He led Marcus to the stables and helped him tack his mare before bidding a final farewell as the fellow solider left the fort. Marcus turned his head to see the giant gates shut behind him; and he was left in the unknown embrace of the wilderness.

As he rode back to Tooth’s Edge, Marcus could not think how to prepare himself for what might come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical notes: Legions often kept cats to keep mice out of their grain stores, and it was not unheard of for Roman soldiers to take part in espionage for Rome. Centurions included.
> 
> Okay, some bits about Cato. He’s actually a proto version of a character I want to write a novel about XD he’s a General in ‘canon’ but is an older Centurion here.


	8. Brambles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've tried to improve my knowledge of Celts and Romans, and interestingly, one of the unspoken 'rules' for Celts includes being plainly spoken as using half truths or lies is frowned upon. Also covering your face with a hood in daylight is only for deceivers and thieves.

Esca rode at such a pace that the wind could not catch him, his horse panted and frothed as he raced blindly onwards.

Vaguely, he was heading in the direction of home; but really, he wished for the wilderness to swallow him up.

Time after time, the gods had conspired to crush his attempts to show Marcus the depths of his affections; such a simple thing, and yet he could not manage it.

He had told many love sick girls and men that he was fond of them, so how could he not succeed with Marcus without insulting or upsetting the other man?

Was it simply doomed?

Esca refused such a thought. He would have Marcus, he would.

But he was too fraught with his feelings to think of what to do now; other than abandon his horse at the wooden gate, charge in, and find his family’s round house.

Once inside, and he was blissfully alone, he collapsed on the furs of his bed.

And, to his shame, he wept a little.

It was not until he felt the lightest of touch on his head that Esca looked up, blinking the tears away from his eyes in case it was his father.

It was not.

His mother looked down upon him, very worried indeed. “My wolf cub, whatever is the matter?”

The prince considered lying to her, pushing her away and taking a walk in the cold to regain his composure.

But something compelled him to tell his mother what had happened.

She listened, carding her fingers through his hair, just like she did when he was a boy.

They sat together, Esca’s head in her lap, for quite some time.

“Mother…” He asked at last, quiet and tentative. “Am I spoiled?”

Aphira let out a soft chuckle, “If you are, it is at least partially the fault of your father and I.”

Esca grunted in lieu of an answer.

“We wanted you and your siblings to always be safe and secure, and it is quite easy to spoil your own children.” His mother admitted, “If we pampered you too much, then we are at fault.”

The Prince turned over, looking up and into his mother’s eyes. “…does that make me a bad man?”

Aphira smiled down at him with love but also pity, “It makes you presume that the world owes you things it does not, which is not only foolish but also dangerous. Nobody rides their horse over a cliff expecting someone to catch them, not even a prince.”

Esca let her words hit his heart, and an understanding spread through his mind and body. “I presumed too much.” He said, sadly. “And he sent me away.”

His mother tutted. “He cares for you, my wolf cub, but he is a troubled man…” Her voice drifted away, as if she was thinking over all the things that Marcus had been through. “He needs to trust you before he will open his arms to you. Such a precious thing is not offered easily.”

Esca sat up, rubbing his eyes so that there were no more tears left. “What should I do?”

Aphria thought for a moment before speaking again “Wait, have patience. And accept his choice, whatever it may be, with good grace.”

The Prince kissed the hand of his mother, knowing her advice was wise; he hoped one day he could be as half as good as she. “Thank you, mother.”

She batted him away like a fly, grinning. “Go now, your young man awaits.”

Esca didn’t need to be told more than once; He leap to his feet and was over the threshold and atop his horse in a few short breaths. Using his heels, he urged his stallion to speed and left the settlement.

His heart pounded like a war drum all the way to Tooth’s edge.

“Marcus!” Esca could not wait, he dismounted before the horse had even come to a complete stop; half stumbling in the dirt.

He rushed inside the roundhouse, expecting to see the man kneeling by the fire or mending his clothes. But the dwelling was empty, dark, and cold.

Esca could not say for sure how long Marcus had been gone, but his mare was also missing, as was some of the few personal things he owned.

The Prince’s chest tightened.

He strode around the yard, calling Marcus’ name; a fruitless act, but he held on to some hope that the Selgovae would magically appear before him if he kept at it.

When Marcus didn’t show himself, Esca felt a fool, a lovesick fool without sense; and he sagged with the notion that he and Marcus never made amends before he left.

Could he simply have decided to move on to new lands? Perhaps the trouble Esca had caused him was too much to bare, so much so he’d rather be rid of the man then linger to say goodbye.

Esca’s fists tightened, his nails scratching the insides of his palms.

He refused to believe he’d been abandoned, simply refused to. Marcus would not do that too him.

The Prince seized his horse and rode out; he would find Marcus, he could not have gotten far in only a few days, and surely there would be an explanation to all of this.

As he reached the pit of the hill, he heard another horse approach.

Esca held his breath, watching as the familiar form of Marcus and his black mare came into his sights.

“Marcus!” He cried.

Marcus was caught by surprise. “Esca?”

“I was looking for you!” Esca rode forth, circling Marcus with his horse to assure himself the man was no illusion; and that all his body parts were intact. “I thought you had left!”

Marcus looked awkward. “I had.”

“Where did you go?” The Prince demanded, then realises after the fact he sounds like a man scolding a wondering dog or a disobedient child. “…I was worried.” He admitted

The feeling came from a place of worry, and not from possessiveness.

The Selgovae paused, mulling over his words. “…away, I needed to think.”

Esca could have enquired _where_ exactly Marcus had gone, but he decided to let the man have some secrets. It wasn’t that important anyway, what mattered was that he had returned.

“I’m glad you are back.” The Prince said with a genuine smile, pleased as he saw Marcus flush before averting his eyes to the horizon. “I should apologise to you.”

Marcus said nothing, simply sat on his horse, and waited for Esca to elaborate.

“I… haven’t been behaving in a manner that is befitting a future chieftain, I’ve acted like a child…” He explained, with all the humility he had in his body. “I am ashamed.”

He looked at Marcus, just briefly, and saw there was a softening to his green eyes. “That is… very honest of you.” Marcus said, with admiration in his voice.

Esca, despite knowing better, puffed up like a cockerel among hens. “It is unmanly to lie.”

Something occured in Marcus’ face, like the passing of a dark storm; his expression crumpled and he dropped his chin, but he tried hard to conceal it. Unfortunately for him, his eyes are so expressive they convey everything. “Yes…it is.”

The Prince was unsure how, but he had misspoken again. He desperately moved the conversation along to other things. “I wanted to make it plain that your affections is yours alone to give, I have no right to compel it from you.”

Marcus’ face shifted between various shades of red.

Esca boldly grasped his wrist. “But… If you do feel the same way I feel about you… I would take you home with me and we can be alone together.”

Marcus let out an odd, choked noise when Esca said ‘alone together’. It was very bizarre, the Prince had never met anyone as bashful as the Selgovae about fornication; most likely a symptom of his half Roman upbringing. Then, he muttered, “I… yes.”

Esca and Marcus stared at each other, both equally surprised Marcus had spoken those words.

“I… that is, I would like to…” The Selgovae was losing his ability to construct proper sentences.

Before Marcus could retreat back into himself, Esca pulled him into a kiss. The second they had shared.

It was better, this time. Marcus opened his mouth for him, moaned without shame and pushed back with equal eagerness. It was not an act of domination, it was a negotiation, a trade between two people who wanted to share what they had with each other.  

They parted, a string of spittle connecting them before being broken by the wind.

Marcus licked his teeth. “You taste like-”

“Lust?” Esca guessed.

Marcus smirked, still somewhat red in the face. “I was going to say dirt.”

The Prince rubbed his face with his tunic, he hadn’t washed since the morning. “Shall we go, then?”

The Selgovae hesitated. “My chickens.”

Esca waved a hand. “I’ll get someone to feed them.” In truth, he found it touching Marcus had a compassionate heart to his animals. 

They made their way along, not speaking at first, trying to let the implications of it all sink in. Marcus was wringing his hands in his reins, so much so his mare was nickering with concern.

The Prince ran a hand over Marcus’ back, soothing him. At first, the Selgovae twitched in surprise, but then relaxed; like a skittish dog, used to pain and not tenderness.

Esca came to a decision. “Don’t go back to Tooth’s Edge, Marcus, you don’t belong in that cold, lonely place.”

“Oh? Where do I belong then?” There seemed to be a genuine enquiry in Marcus’ tone, as if he was lost in a mist with no notion where he should go.

Esca smiled gently at him. “Somewhere with decent beds and food.”

Marcus let out a small, tired huff. “That does sound preferable.”

They continued on in quietude until they reached the gate.

They marched through side by side, like they had done only a few nights before, and Esca saw Marcus hold himself differently; he’d let whatever was troubling him rest outside the doors, he breathed in deeply, letting his shoulders drop.

Esca was pleased. 

A few tribespeople waved at the Prince, and he waved back.

When they halted their horses, a girl emerged from the crowd and ran over, her chubby face bright with a grin.

“Marcus!”

It was Erie.

Marcus seemed pleased to see her, “Erie!”

They hugged once the Selgovae was down on the ground, it made Esca’s nerves prickle.  

“Esca’s been pining for you-” She sniggered with a glint in her eye, dancing around the two like a teasing sprite. “I saw him with mother earlier, he was lying on his bed wailing like a hound with a broken leg-”

Esca blushed, and stamped his foot at her. “Shut your mouth!”

Marcus chuckled, and leaned down to whisper conspiratorially in her ear; but just loud enough so that Esca could hear. “We shall talk about it later, eh?”

Erie nodded, her red hair bouncing.

“You can show me how to sew. I have some terrible holes in my tunic that need seeing too.” He told her, with a voice of forlorn suffering; as if his tunic was in very desperate need of mending.

She gasped. “You don’t know how to sew? All the men here do!” picking up her skirts, she hurried away, as if on a mission of great importance. “I’ll fetch mother! I need to borrow her needles!”

Esca groaned, a low, drawn out sound of pain. “She’s a nuisance.”

“She’s you sister.” Marcus reminded him.

“That makes it worse.” The Prince grumbled.

As they made the short walk up to the round house, Marcus asked in a carefully crafted casual tone, “…you can sew?”

Esca snorted. “Not well.”

The temptation to jump Marcus and ravish him immediately after the entered the house was strong indeed, but Esca reminded himself of his mother’s advice.

Patience.

Marcus glanced around the round house, unsure of where he should be. Then, he asked, “…which bed is yours?”

Esca’s desire coiled around him tightly like a snake, and he gestured to the bed furthest from the fire pit.

The Selgovae took slow, deliberate steps, eventually sitting down tentatively on the furs. The prince was glad Marcus seemed to be growing in confidence, even if he did still have the look of a rabbit in a wolf’s den.

“This is nice.” Marcus said, running his hands over the pelts, “You must sleep like the dead.”

“I don’t think either of us will be sleeping.” Unable to wait any longer, Esca pulled his tunic over his head in one quick move.

He approached Marcus with purpose, the force of it being enough to slowly push the Selgovae onto his back; ready for when Esca straddled him. His chest rose and fell in rapid succession, Esca soothed him by cupping his strong jaw and rubbing his thumb across the tip of his nose.

“Shhh.”

The Selgovae swallowed, Esca watched eagerly as his Adam’s apple moved smoothly in his throat.

The Prince then lifted the hem of Marcus’ tunic, exposing his sculpted torso and his sun kissed skin; he was wonderfully warm to the touch.

Marcus was still _tense_ , Esca would need to draw him out slowly.

The Selgovae had ensnared him, like brambles, capturing his thoughts and imagination. “I’ve dreamt about you being here…” He whispered, caressing Marcus’ hip.

The Selgovae traced a pathway with his fingers across Esca bare and sharp collarbone. It felt good.

Bracing his hands on the either side of Marcus’ head, The Prince leaned down so he could just barely brush their lips together; leaving a gap for his words to be heard and their breath to mingle. “And now, I have you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sexy cliffhanger? XD I can't write smut for beans pls bear with me.


	9. Blood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I CANNOT WRITE SMUT I AM SO SORRY.
> 
> IMPORTANT! There will be no update this week as I am sick again :c but next will there will be a new chapter up asap!

Esca was suffocating.

He was covering Marcus with his skinny body, but his mere presence filled the entirety of the round house and seeped into Marcus’ very core. Up so close, he once again caught the faint scent of honeysuckle flowers.

The Briton had now liberated Marcus’ of his shirt, leaving him feeling oddly naked without it; as if the final piece of his armour had been taken away.

Was this part of the lie?

Being seduced by this wild, tempestuous man had not been part of Marcus’ plan; it was going too deep, no man could possibly pretend to feel what he was feeling now.

But was Esca’s affection truly for _him?_

Or was he in love with the sad story Marcus had created? This skin Rome had forced him to inhabit.

The thoughts kept coming, but Esca’s attention prevented Marcus from exploring them much further.

For that, he thanked the collective of gods watching over him; if they were even watching at all.

“I’ve dreamt about you being here…” Esca said, his tones rough and low as he pressed his lips to the Roman’s ear.

His breath was warm and moist, like a horse’s. “You’re… stunning.”

Stunning.

No one had ever used such a word to describe him.

It made the Roman glow warmly on the inside.

Marcus let out something of an uneasy laugh, tilting his head back. He’d never known what to do with compliments; they were foreign to him.

“Is that not a slight exaggeration?” He asked, panting.

Esca was making his blood rush to everywhere except his head; perhaps that was why he was unable to see the foolhardiness of what he was doing.

“I don’t exaggerate.” The Briton whispered, trailing a hand over Marcus’ shoulders. “These…these are beautiful.”

These?

He must have meant Marcus’ freckles. He didn’t understand what was so exceptional about them, he’d seen many freckled faces among Esca’s own people.

The Roman was bewildered. “Why? They look like flecks of dirt.”

Esca stopped his examination of Marcus’ body to angrily bark out “Who told you that?!” His eyes flashing and his nostrils flaring like a bull in a rage.

Marcus regretted his words immediately, and back tracked as quickly as he was able; it was a tactical retreat, that’s what the army would have called it.

“No one…” He lied.

There had been a nursemaid, a long time ago, who’d refused to let him out to play until his ‘filthy face’ was clean. After scrubbing his skin nearly raw, she realised that the spots were not going to come off.

Not even when he had begun to cry.

Esca didn’t seem completely satisfied, but he didn’t press the matter. Marcus suspected he was storing it away in his mind to be brought up again later.

Then the Briton dropped again upon Marcus, and began to dot kisses on his bare shoulders; his body was quaking with want, but he was restraining himself.

The Roman squirmed, Esca’s lips sent sparks flying across his body making him disorientated and aroused to an even greater degree. “Esca-! Ha…” He gasped. “What are you doing?”

“I will kiss them all.” The Briton said, as if this was the most normal thing in the world. “To prove to you how lovely they are.” The last kiss had an added nip of teeth which made Marcus’ manhood twitch; He was becoming undone already, as if he were some lust drunk adolescent.

“T-That might take you some time.” Marcus tried to keep his voice steady, but it kept being broken with moans and sharp inhales.

It wasn’t very dignified.  

“We have time.” Esca soothed, looking into the Roman’s eyes with affection and primal desire. “My brother is on a hunting trip, my father is preparing for a negotiation with the Dumnonii, and my mother and sister will be gossiping with the other women.”

Marcus blushed at the thought of being intimate with Esca in the same house that parents and sister lived in. “Will they be…”

“Ah, never fear. I’ve had to endure listening to their night time tumbles since I was a child; I think I’m entitled to a little revenge.” Esca said.

“Can we please change the subject?” Marcus begged, trying to forcibly supress the mental images that were creeping up on him.

Esca smirked. “Of course.” He kissed the Roman fully, with an insistent tongue.

Marcus’ eyes drifted towards the door.

He saw the disgusted face of the fort centurion, as if he were able to step in and to witness this spectacle. A Roman laid out thusly, hot and bothered by the touch of a savage Briton; what kind of a man was he?

The shame tasted like bile, and Marcus unconsciously leaned away from Esca; his fingers itched to pull at the hairs behind his ear.

 The Briton sensed his troubles, but misinterpreted the cause. “…I can make sure we are not disturbed.”

He was up from the bed in a few quick movements, and Marcus felt very cold without him.

The Roman buried his face in the furs surrounding him; hearing Esca having a muffled conversation with someone outside.

There was some laughter, and something that sounded like a congratulations.

Marcus groaned, being on his stomach was compressing his blood filled cock painfully against the mattress; but it wasn’t doing anything at all to abate his arousal, he was too far gone to try and ignore it now.

This was going to happen, he and Esca were going to fuck; and it was going to be the death of something which made him proper Roman.

Somehow, Marcus found little energy to care.

This had been the first time in many years he’d had something for himself, and he was reluctant to give it up.

“There, my friend Belenus will guard the door. No one will enter, or I shall pluck out their eyes.” Esca sounded cheerful as he approached the bed. “Marcus? Why are you hiding?”

The Roman buried deeper into the furs, they tickled his nose and his cock throbbed even more at the sound of the other man’s voice.

“Not hiding.” He mumbled.

Esca laughed. “Roll over then, there’s no need for us to do it this way. I want to see you.” Guiding Marcus gently, but firmly, he got the Roman to face him again.

He didn’t have to try very hard; the power he had over Marcus was downright obscene.

 _Get up._ A sinister whisper curled into the Roman’s ear and nested there. _Stop this nonsense._

Esca smoothed his hands down the ridges of Marcus’ pectoral muscles with a noise of appreciation, Marcus could clearly see his erection straining in his braccae.

His throat went dry, and his mind started to spin. A very pleasant heat engulfed his entire body, and his fingers clutched at the furs underneath him.

_You’re not worthy._

Esca slowly revealed his own cock at last, pulling himself out to lazily stroke his length right where Marcus could see.

_You’re a liar_

Marcus wanted very badly to touch him, so he reached out and placed his hand over Esca’s. The Briton threw his head back, his blonde curls flying. “Yes, Marcus…”

The Roman panted, and began to work his hand up and down Esca’s length.

Esca did the same for him, slowly, lovingly, until they both were in need of greater friction.

They changed positions on the bed, with Marcus tucking himself behind the Briton’s body and thrusting himself between Esca’s thighs.

He could take Esca fully, like other men took women and slaves, but he had not the want too.

The Briton purred, low and sweet like honey. “Is this how the Selgovae make love?” he teased. “Can’t say I’m blown away so far.”

The insult was intended to rally Marcus’ passion by offending his ego.

“Hush.” Marcus hissed. “And I shall show you.”

He began to rock his hips back and forth, the tip of his manhood colliding with the back of Esca’s balls. It was clumsy, uncoordinated, and there was something ludicrous about the whole affair; but if the noises from the Briton’s mouth were any indication, enjoyable.

Marcus had bedded men this way before, without making the other suffering the womanly part; or taking on that part himself.

“Marcus.” Esca growled. “By the great gods of all we see do _not_ stop.”

Marcus reached a hand over to once again take Esca in his grip, he was lovely and hard; close to climax, as was the Roman, and it made him giggle with glee.

“Talk to me, Marcus.” The Briton demanded. “I want to hear you.”

“What…” He asked, unable to form the words how he would like. “Would you like me to say?”

“Anything at all, my love.”

My love.

Marcus thrust with even greater power and speed, his cock snug between Esca’s welcoming thighs.

“I...you’re so…”

Esca arched his back, which suggested he was close to finishing; and a long, guttural sound confirmed he had completed a few minutes later.

Marcus found, with some irritation, that he needed something else to help him along. Esca turned over and, with a fox-like smile, took the Roman into his mouth and sucked.

“ _Esca!_ ”

The Roman side of his brain yowled at the disgusting nature of this act, but the other half quickly subdued it; it was an odd sensation, but Marcus didn’t want it to stop.

The shock alone brought about Marcus’ climax without Esca having to do much work.

Out of breath, chests heaving and sweating as if they’d run a mile long footrace; Esca and Marcus lay side by side on the bed.

Marcus wasn’t sure what he expected would happen immediately afterwards.

It had been a decent fuck, nice in fact, but a bit awkward due to their over eagerness and lack of knowledge of each other’s bodies. Still, maybe now they would have the luxury of time to get to know each other better.

The world hadn’t ended, and no one had come to arrest Marcus for perversion; so overall it had been a good day, though he was feeling quite thirsty.

He got up, or at least made a valiant attempt to.

“What’s wrong?” Esca asked, looking over.

“I need a drink,” Marcus croaked.

The Briton laid some more kisses on Marcus’ freckled left shoulder. “I’ll get us something. I feel a bit hungry myself.”

The Roman looked down at the soiled furs, and his sticky skin. “Shouldn’t we wash first?”

“Fussy. Alright, food, water and something to wash ourselves with.” Esca continued his peppering of kisses while he spoke.

The Roman gave him a small shove. “Go on, before I die of thirst.”

Esca mock gasped. “You can’t push a prince in his own round house! I shall have you strung up by the thumbs.”

Marcus’ expression was perfectly deadpan. “Good luck with that. Now, get gone.”

“By the thumbs I declare!”

“Esca, _go_.”

After he’d gone, Marcus stretched and yawned like a great beast; his firm muscles rippling.

It had obviously been too long since his last dalliance, as he was tired from what was the equivalent of a rolling in the hay. Esca seemed to have a better idea of what he was doing, and Marcus wondered how many lovers he’d had before.

Soon, he was growing jealous imaging his Briton flirting with pretty village girls and sneaking off with his warrior brothers into the forest for a quick rut.

Marcus shook his head.

He was acting a fool, he had no right to be possessive of Esca; the man was governed only by his own whims.

They were both men, who had enjoyed others before they had even met; it was simply a fact of life, nothing to become upset over.

Although Marcus really hoped his performance hadn’t given the impression he was a virgin.

Esca returned then, with several things; a water skin, some bread and cheese, and a bucket.

“Your majesty.” He quipped, giving Marcus the water and the bucket, helping himself in the meanwhile to a generous chunk of the bread.

The Roman smiled. “Tis nice to have other people do things for you, isn’t it?” He wrung out a rag which was lying in the water and began to wash the dried essence from his stomach.

Esca crawled over, nuzzling playfully at Marcus’ ear, the joy inside him radiated out like a beacon. “It is indeed.”


End file.
